I AM SUNLIGHT

I am the Sun, stuck in the sky, soft and warm.

A bulb of firelight stuck on the ocean’s horizon, in the same place, all day, all day, every day. Yesterday. Today. Tomorrow. Always sunshiny, always late, late afternoon. Animals and plants have adjusted their eyes or their leaves, they live, accepting that the sun, simply, doesn’t set.

Baking balmy under my rays of yellow, brown, red, and tortoiseshell, a soft multi-coloured glare bouncing off streets, sunglasses, smiles and sand. Forever late afternoon, a cloudless yellow-on-blue sky, all day, every day. Huts, palm trees, people in bars under hanging fern fronds, balmy beaches, faded and glorious.

Coconut oil slathered with sweat on sensuous human flesh, desperate to rub against another’s tanned skin, to taste it, lick it, loosen their souls through touch and warmth. The sound of women in every bungalow fucking slowly in heavy air, eyes staring up at palm-frond roofs. Everyone on the tiny island can hear the muffled ecstasy, smell the delicate, intoxicating aroma of women’s flowers, the mustiness dripping and flourishing.

I’m sunlight.

Under a yellow, shimmery sky, it’s difficult for Baptiste to see through the glare. He squints, on the other side of the swimming pool a woman sits alone at the bar, naked on a stool. Other people sit or lay on sun lounges surrounding the pool, napping, relaxing, sleeping under giant sun umbrellas made from a fabric that lost its original colours a long, long time ago. Faded-fabric moods bubble along with rippling blue pool water, tranquil deep house music plays on a single small speaker behind the barman.

Walking past the sun lounges, around the pool and towards the bar, Baptiste smiles to himself, the woman’s cocoa skin blends perfectly with her tight, copper bikini material. It seems painted onto her body.

“What would you like to drink,” the islander barman asks Baptiste while he sits smoothly on a stool beside the woman.

Music, suddenly silent, moving between songs. Ripples from the top of the pool become a little louder, “Two glasses of red wine, please, Sir,” Baptiste replies.

“Oh, I don’t drinks alcohol,” the woman on the barstool beside him smiles.

“And… what makes you think the other glass is for you,” Baptiste asks.

“I know it’s for me,” her smile grows, plump lips somehow saying ‘maybe’ to his generous offer.

 Both smiling, knowing that the island’s most popular game has started again. Seduction simmers in dry air. Baptiste pays for the drinks, the barman placing the glasses before them, sunlight splashing on the rims, sun-wine ready to relax her organs from top to bottom.

“You do not like to drink the alcohol?” Baptiste asks, a little embarrassed about his obvious English language mistake.

“I arrived here yesterday…” Shanty’s shoulders push backwards, “I come from a more… konservatif island, where alcohol is, almost forbidden. I am bored with that life,” her smile stays strong, not wanting to dive into that subject, “what is your nama, and where are you from?”

“My nama is Baptiste. I am from France.”

“Ohhh, Francis… a beautiful place! And my nama is Shanty.” 

“What a beautiful nama,” sipping his wine, placing the glass delicately on the bar, “Shanty, have you been to France?”

“No,” her eyes droop, “I am poors, my family is poors,” looking at the spare glass of wine sitting in front of him with interest, “I could never buy such a luxurious, to be truths, I have only been on the island of my birth, and here,” her eyes straining to look up at him, weighed down by a gloriously invisible weight.

 Taking another sip, Baptiste lowers his glass, picks it up again, takes another much longer taste, a swirl, puts the glass back down, silently deciding to play ‘the game’ hard and fast. Toes tap tap tap along with the deep house, an even tone, the perfect, repetitive beat helping his blood be brave and balanced, “You are not on the conservative island now,” he says firmly, “I have bought you a glass of wine, and… you look like a million dollars in that tiny bikini,” eyes glowing, “I think you may have already lost some of your conservative values… yes?”

 Laughing loudly, eyes rolling, shoulders and breasts wiggling from side to side, her mind looks for a possible way to argue, or politely disagree. Looking down at her bikini, at her breasts begging for attention, and looking lower, the triangle of her pussy only kept private by a scrap of material, “May I please enjoy the wines with you,” she giggles.

 “Yes, you may,” the French accent in his voice already making her feel a little dizzy. Politely placing the spare glass in front of her, his head and neck offering the slightest continental bow.

 “This will be my first alcohols drink,” looking at the glass with some trepidation… rehearsed fear followed by a bloom of excitement popping to her face, an innocent look of wonder that only islander eyes can deliver, “thank you.”

 “Wine, Shanty… is to be savoured, sip it slowly,” Baptiste looks towards the barman who’s lost in a deep house music sleepy stupor, “Sir… Sir,” Baptiste says, “is it possible to buy a small plate of fromage, ah, cheese… to have with our wine?”

 “Yes, yes, boss,” the barman’s body returns to life, lips smiling, delighted to hear the French accent again, “please wait, one or two moments, I will need to go to the kitchen to find some… some kualitas, um, quality cheese for you, yes?”

 “Thank you, no hurry.”

 Shanty’s long brown fingers wrap themselves around the stalk of her wine glass, finger, by, finger. A dance from her well trained subconscious, eliciting moist lips, licked by a healthy tongue, thrilled to be doing something new, “I think the taste will be amazing,” she says, youth shining, dripping, coating every word.

 “How old are you,” he asks, conspicuous family wealth and perfect genes glowing in his eyes of carnal fire, wondering what it will be like to slide off her bikini bottom, and see her pussy.

 “Twenty-two,” she says, wondering if this handsome man will pull her bikini bottom off her body fast or slow, “and you?”

 “Twenty-seven,” he replies, imagining removing her bikini in a fraction of a second, maybe faster. Music rolls along, beat, beat, beat, vibes of happiness as endless as my light.

 Sitting, not talking, together, sipping on wine, gentle heat falling from the sky licking the ripples on the surface of the pool. A plate of cheese arrives from a silent bartender, they nibble, they sip, music lulls them into mutual bliss.

 With a half empty glass, “I feel different,” Shanty says, holding the wine glass out and up, high to the light, studying it, “I don’t know how this is happening… huuu wahhh,” tilting her head to the left, “I am in a new… huuu wahhh, reality,” eyes rolling on a face of befuddlement, stunningly, beautifully fuzzy, “I don’t understand, huuu wahhhhhh,” head tilting to the right, “I am confuse.”

 With a blank face, “The gods must be crazy,” Baptiste replies, a secret smile wetting his lips.

 Unable to eye drag any answers out of the magical glass of wine, Shanty lowers it, takes another sip, swallows, takes a breath, and relaxes. Looking at Baptiste, “Nothing shines higher than a young woman in full bloom,” lubricated thoughts flow easily from her wet tongue, “this is my time… I am, I am the queen of the nows,” she smiles. Fingers glide to her bikini top, a fake attempt to lift the material, chocolate on hazel nipples peeking over the top of the fabric, a semicircle of desire raising Baptiste’s pressure.

The music stops, quiet again between two songs. Baptiste smiles, hearing the gentle hum of the pool filter pumping water, tiny pool waves rippling along the surface chilling his mind, more blood draining from his brain to his cock.

“This is my time,” Shanty repeats, “LOOK at me,” wine broiling in her brain, “I’m only twenty-two years old, I’m slim, with brown skins,” words skate from her mouth. Holding wobbly wine with one hand, her other hand glides down her leg with no resistance, “I’m sun-pussy, ha ha ha,” gulping the rest of her wine.

Completely quiet, sliding his gaze from her brown eyes to the cheeky hints of nipple above the bikini top, down to her toes, and up.

 “This IS MY TIME,” Shanty says, the strength of the words capturing Baptiste in a dulling trance. Everything around them becomes bokeh. Blurred into sun frazzled pixel blocks of faded everything. Shanty clinks on her glass with a fingernail. It vibrates. Ting ting. And another, and another. A trance. More rapidly on the edge of her empty wine glass, ting ting, ting ting the glass sings. Her smiling lips moisten, “Nothing shines brighter than a girl who is, say, seventeen-years-old, until they are, perhaps, twenty-five-years-old,” ting ting tinging her glass, “a girl wearing a floral summer dress,” sucking a rapid breath, “a girl at her peak,” her fingers stop, the glass rests, “no man ever, EVER shines higher than that. No man. Never.”

 Without needing to think, “I agree Shanty, it is true, a beautiful young woman at her peak, nothing shines brighter,” Baptiste says with a smile lubricated by drinking the last of his wine, an accent laughing at the lack of sophistication in the grapes, “you are correct.”

 “But a man’s time, it can shine… longers,” Shanty says, “look at you, my new friend, my first friend from Francis,” long waves of brown hair tossing, “you are twenty-seven years old, yes,” he nods, she continues, “and you are a DOLL! You are almost too beautiful.” Adjusting her bottom, getting more comfortable in the barstool, “With men, YOUR time can last so longers… until you are fifty years old, or mores,” her oiled knees twitch, matching the subtle discomfort in her voice. Silent, her mouth hangs partly open, eyes drilling a million-mile-stare into her imagined future, “This is MY time,” she exclaims, “BUT,” with a finger held high, “I will make my time, lasting forever.”

 Not reacting to her words, holding a steady, calm face, “Would you like another glass of wine?”

 Glowing.

 Sunshiny.

 I wait in the sky.

 Stuck.

THAT SMELL

A long line of empty wine glasses on the bar tells a story.

Looking at the clock on the wall, the barman’s face tightens. He leans over to talk to Baptiste and Shanty, “The islands ‘devil day,’ it will begin soon,” looking over the pool, up and over the roof of the hotel and into the sky, “buy food and water, whatever you need, because you must stay inside your hotel room for 24 hours.” With a more serious face, “It’s the islands most important day, when evil spirits will come down and fly above us,” magic fills his islander eyes, “with everyone inside, the devils, all the bad spirits, they will assume that the island is deserted,” his face relaxes, “after 24 hours, they will leave us alone, hopefully, for yet another year.”

People have started leaving the pool, wrapping beach towels around their bodies, melting into hotel rooms with doors that silently close, preparing for the day of isolation with someone special… or with themselves… fresh batteries, soft music, and candles.

“Would you like to come for a walk with me?” Baptiste asks Shanty, the possibility of disappointment making his face droop.

“Sure, sure, sure” she smiles.

‘Interesting,’ Baptiste thinks to himself, ‘there will be no resistance, sliding into her pussy will be slow and wet, the game is already won,’ his face glowing.

A gentle hand guides her in the direction of the hot brick exit to the laneway. Walking under two red brick pillars, its small roof of reeds and grass calmly providing them with a brief splash of shade. Four bare feet enjoy the stimulating warmth of the ground, there’s no need to holiday-run quickly to the nearest shade, heat travels through their feet and up their legs warming the bones of their hips, priming them for each other.

Twenty toes rub on the sandy lane with each step of delight. They walk, laughing about nothing, not talking, talking, not talking, talking again. Her island fingers, dry and creased from a hard life shyly wrap around his buttery fingers on a hand that has never held anything rough. Fingers for his own, silky, private pleasure.

People everywhere are strolling to their rooms, wandering into mini markets to buy supplies. Couples chat about the twenty-four hours they will spend with each other, the only sound will be their voices. Single people smile to themselves, wondering how high their bag of magic mushrooms will get them under the gentle pressure, the lubrication, the vibration of their newest toy.

“THESE WHORES,” a bitter old lady complains, her Scottish accent welds words with bitterness. ‘Leatherface,’ she is way past her prime, always smoking a cigarette with a long cigarette holder held sharply between sharper fingers. Sucking and breathing out smoke high into the air, “THESE WHORES,” she complains again with a mouth full of useless letters that don’t mix well with my sunshine, a long nose poking into the lane, eyes staring, nasty glaring at pretty island girls sauntering past.

Across the lane, another old lady with a book in her hand, shaking her head at Leatherface. “Oh, I wish that I had… entertained more men when I was young, and women too,” whispering to herself with a wistful face. Lines of courage, humour and experience mix happily with memories of the fun she did have in her youth, “Funny how it’s never enough… I thought I’d be the centre of attention forever.” Looking over the lane at Leatherface again, with a smile, “What happened to you, I wonder,” closing her door, relieved to be alone, her sweaty hand looking forward to turning the pages of her new Chuck Tingle novel.

 Shopping completed, Baptiste and Shanty approach the entrance to his hotel, walking into a courtyard strewn with sandy grass. A table of middle-aged men wearing African hats sit on wicker chairs, drinking gin and tonic, large, slow fans keeping them cool.

 Sand sticking to Baptiste’s and Shanty’s toes, each other’s laughter starts sticking to each other’s hearts. They stop. A tingle of nervousness trickles through Baptiste’s mind, his gentlemanly upbringing taking control.

“Yes?” he asks her softly.

“Yes,” she replies.

 One word has covered the issue of consent and triggered their feet to continue walking towards his Bungalow. Under my heat, thousands of softly closing doors shut around the island. Curtains are pulled across windows, couples whisper, watering each other’s ears with promises of pleasure. Everyone respects the tradition of ‘devil day,’ trusting that sunlight will still shine on the people-barren island outside of their cosy rooms.

One of Shanty’s feet steps into Baptiste’s bungalow, her body rigid. One foot in. One foot out. She can see that the hotel staff have already prepared his room. Heavy, thick curtains have been pulled, a large candle glows in a ceramic bowl, “Your bungalow… it does not smell like sex,” Shanty says sniffing, the tiniest tint of blush painting her cheeks.

“You thought it would?” Baptiste asks.

Stepping inside, closing the door behind her. A long neck stretches forwards, scanning left and right, up, and down. She loves the straw roof, the expensive polished wood floor, walls decorated with images of men and women on surfboards, or eating coconuts, or in an embrace. Pictures painted in sublime shades of holiday blues and yellows with a satisfied artist’s brush, “Yes… I thought it would smell like sex.”

“And…” he asks, his French tone cutely confident, “what does sex smell like?”

A flash of a hand, her bikini top drops to the floor. Her other hand whips off the bikini bottoms, “I’ll show you,” she smoulders, pushing him backward and onto the bed, the candle flickering from the force. He falls onto the expensive cotton mattress. Jumping, sitting on his face, “This is my time,” she yells, her oily, nearly black nipples instantly grow crazy large and crazy pointy, shoving her chest forward from the thrill of his penetrating tongue.

DREAMY BEACH

Smiling at how fast she has become accustomed to the taste, to the feel of actor-strength alcohol, “Just a few weeks,” Shanty practices pondering to herself, a new audience is never far away. A glass of lime juice mixed with rice wine, rolling it around in her hand, watching the liquid of the vigorous, powerful drink swirl, matching her eyes.

Twenty or so girls on the beach are all drinking the same thing, it’s the only alcohol available on the remote Dreamy Beach. Limes are plentiful, and rice-wine is everywhere. Surfer’s girlfriends quickly learn to drink Arak, sunbake, and snooze.

Staring out across the ocean, squinting through the bright light, trying to see the surfers, Shanty’s head tilts to the side, a little disappointed that they are so far away. She can’t see which one is her boyfriend, Baptiste.

“How much will it cost me to fuck you?” a man’s voice asks.

Surprised to hear a male voice from the person who sat silently beside her, “Why aren’t you surfing,” looking around the tiny beach, Shanty continues, “all the men are outs… out… surfing.”

“I hate surfing. I like drinking Arak,” lifting his glass, “and sex. Now, about that fuck, what is your price?”

Pushing her tongue forward, licking her top lip with pure confidence, “One million dollars, US dollars,” she laughs, thoroughly enjoying the way she gets propositioned many times per day when Baptiste is not close.

“Expensive.”

“Ha ha ha, yes, I am the most expensive-est girl on the island.” 

The man digs around in his mind for a clever reply. Unfortunately, the sight of her shiny new, ridiculously bright-pink bikini clashing spectacularly with her olive skin has numbed his thoughts.

“I have a boyfriend,” pointing out to the ocean with the hand holding her glass, spilling some of her Arak, “he’s one of the surfers.”

“Oh. No. I want to fuck you, not him,” the man smiles, happy to have regained some attitude.

“Ha ha ha ha, you are funny,” smiling, sipping her Arak.

“I have a girlfriend,” he says, “she is waving at you right now, look,” pointing in her direction.

“OH MY GOD,” Shanty pushes her drink into the sand, returning a wave in the other woman’s direction, “I have seen her, she is deaf, yes? She lives here, she is an islander.”

“That’s right, she has seen you in the nightclubs… she wants a threesome with you.”

Face up to the sun with closed eyes, Shanty glows with the thrill of life. Her pussy, mushy from the thought of experiencing sex with a woman and a man at the same time, “I can’t… my boyfriend is 

“The surfer,” he interrupts.

“Yes, the surfer, he’s rich,” Shanty purrs, “his family owns castles, properties, busi things, manys, across Europa… the past weeks with him, ow, it has been a

“Paradise,” he interrupts again.

“Yes, a paradise.”

Nothing needs to be said. Sunlight blinding their view of the ocean. Tiny-speck surfers, far off in the distance, getting further and further away with each new glass of Arak. Further-further away with each new-new-new glass of Arak. Inside the haze, the man’s girlfriend has joined them, she communicates with gestures, no speech. Her pretty face and small hands weave and wave ideas and thoughts without effort. Her eyes speak words. Somehow. Her tiny, pointy breasts punctuate the end of a statement by pushing forwards, or dropping, or nipple-growing, or jiggling. Tiny-tits, words without words. Body language on the beach. Hazy and hazy. Buying Arak and Arak and more Arak, three people talk in a mishmash of breathing, breasts, the obvious salty drip of pre-cum leaking through swimming shorts. The temperature of their sitting sand raises and lowers, a degree or so, adding to the conversation. Shanty is sucking her breasts. How did she get off the beach and into the deaf girl’s villa so fast? His cum, plentiful. The deaf girl rubs it gently all over Shanty’s face, her face, and his. Music, salty surf, lime, sand still stuck, sliding on three bodies. Hazy. Arak gulped from clay pots, cold to the touch, warm to the throat. The deaf girl talks to Shanty’s pussy, a red tongue that never wastes energy on words. Villa haze, orgasms, more cum, ambient music flowing in a loop. Floor-to-ceiling windows that didn’t have curtains spontaneously drop enormous white lengths of sailing material. The wind billows the white-sail curtains throughout the room as they fuck each other in every way they can imagine. The taste. How much time has passed? Cock throbbing, cum again, shooting into Shanty’s mouth, fresh-cum licked back out of her mouth in a frenzy by the deaf girl, ravenous for anything, everything, she squirts. Shanty, with her fingers inside herself, rubbing, poking wildly, yelling. White curtains wrap their bodies in light. Hazy. Talking. Walking. Squinting out at the ocean.

Somehow, Shanty is sitting alone, back at the beach, breathing a long sigh.

Baptiste wanders out of the surf, shining, carrying his favourite faded surfboard, “Sorry… my sweet, I was out there for many hours,” the thrill of surfing filling his face.

“Oh, no problem,” looking at him, an innocent, padlocked, sugar-lipped cum smile.

AKASAKA

Week after week.

Daytime becomes daytime.

Pouring my light onto their shoulders, Shanty and Baptiste scurry up the concrete stairs, laughing about their slightly sunburned skin, scampering to the escape of a big-box nightclub.

Daytime becomes a thinner, photon-time.

Inside, six concrete walls hold booming trance, broadcasting from every direction. Bass bouncing off the plain concrete ceiling smashes the top of their heads. Bass from four bare concrete walls bashes their bodies. Vibrations from the concrete floor tremble their feet, sandals wigwag in time with tunes.

Akasaka, a no-nonsense bar at one end, only cement, no paint, no decorations, a DJ somewhere, lost in the light.

Shanty, almost blinded, standing in the club’s centre, living inside of every note, beat and boom of trance. Mouth open to bewilderment, the strange new atmosphere of a trance club takes her outside of herself. Flashing, booming light balms the creases of the hard life written into the skin of her fingers, melting the lines away. Fanning, holding out strobing hands in front of her face, lost in light and bass… bass… bass…

Beyond her fingers, hundreds of people awash in an oceanic tide of sound and light, flash-appearing, flash-disappearing. Strobing people of all ages, all races, all smiles. Ladyboys dressed in peacock plumage, colours, colours, colours. Everyone lost inside of sound, the shine, the high, the feeling of vibrating with the world’s saddest style of music. Trance.

“Trance, it’s all about lost love,” Baptiste says to himself, his brain dripping in melancholy microwave memories. ‘Every song is about lost love…’ swaying, squinting, memories of past girlfriends, every laugh, every erection, every kiss, every angry father. All those dark, heart-stones that dripped from cavity to cavity. Painful in his still-young heart, all existing in this instant. Pushing his shoulders to strength, “I used those heart-stones to build my manhood,” his arms spread out, “I will never again need to pick up heart-stones,” thoughts punch his mind with each beat-beat-beat of noise melting his mind, “I have met…”

Freeze-frame.

No music.

No movement.

Only the outline of a girl.

“THE girl.”

MR TRIPOD

Time moves. Nothing changes. The sandy laneway brushed by huts and leaves and trees, always the same. 

“These WHORES,” the old prune announces.

Walking hand in hand down the laneway, Shanty and Baptiste kick sand for fun, their warm ears happy, unable to hear Leatherface complain under my bake of never-ending light.

Carrying his travel bag over a shoulder, they reach the end of the lane. A horse pulling a wooden cart stops, “To the Airport, yes?” Baptiste asks the driver politely.

“Yes, yes, no problem,” the old driver responds with a mouthful of crooked teeth, lips locked in a permanent smile.

“Hm, can I have it now?” Shanty asks Baptiste, “can I have my present now?” expectation rolling in her eyes, the horse impatient, neighing, loving its daily exercise.

“Here is money to use while I am away,” Shanty pushes the fat roll of notes into her purse.

“Not that,” she pleads, “you said you have a gift for me, a… thingy that will keep us together.”

Digging out a small box from his pocket, “Yes, this gift is our goodbye, and… it is our hello,” he says, looking at her face, watching it grow confused. Pulling out two matching ‘Yin-Yang’ necklaces, one slides around her thinly divine neck, a neck so stylish he never stops studying it. The other slides around his neck, “I will begin my flight to Francis today, and return in a few weeks,” kissing her softly, “our matching symbols, the Yin and Yang, around our necks, they will keep our souls in synchronisation,” a loving smile, “look at you, you don’t cast a shadow, you never have… you are perfect,” kissing her again, “Yin and Yang,” whispering, “black and white… it is the eternal conundrum, without light, shadows can’t exist.”

With absolutely no idea what he is talking about, “Thank you, thank you my love, thank you MY Baptiste,” rubbing the stunning symbol sticking to her silky sweaty skin, my light shines from above, refusing to set, even under the looming threat of alliteration incarceration.

Watching Baptiste getting smaller and smaller, clip-clopping away inside the back of the cart, her large eyes dripping with tears. In agony, her final wave. Fingers palm spreading in the sunshine, waving to him, “I will be waiting… I am yours… FOREVER!”

Sucking Mr. Tripod’s enormous black cock, Shanty de-cocks, “I wonder if Baptiste is still at the airport, or if his plane has already gone?”

Mr. Tripod, still holding her ponytail with his left hand, a handful of hair, pulling her mouth back onto his cock, “Don’t know,” he says, “don’t care,” groaning, groaning, groaning, the sound of her lips squelching on his enormous black penis.

“Ahh,” Mr. Tripod’s left-ponytail-hand pulls Shanty’s head away. His right-ponytail-hand, also holding a handful of hair, pulls Shanty’s friend’s mouth forwards to suck on his cock.

Shanty awaits her next, probably abrupt turn.

Mr. Tripod’s knees wobble, shifting from side to side. The thrill of holding heaven in each hand bouncing the mattress, the girl’s bulging purses slide off the bed, topped up nicely from the cash Mr. Tripod gave them. Getting close to orgasm, his face contorts, “Choices choices,” he gasps, “which one… WHICH ONE!”

Way off in the distance, the soft romantic hum of propellers pushing a plane into the sky, the sound drifting in through Mr. Tripods gentle wooden window. He grabs Shanty’s ponytail, “AH AH AH,” his voice enormous, cock pumping the start of an enormous load of holiday cum down Shanty’s surprisingly adequate, divine throat.

Up in the azure sky, the forlorn wingtips of the plane tilt, sadly navigating it up and away to take it far, far from the island, weighed down by the passenger’s heavy, holiday-over, hearts.

A mature woman has been spying, watching the two girls and the giant black man through her wooden window, the view only partially hidden by some undulating palms. Her vibrator set to maximum, the older woman watches the brown girl across the courtyard, her ponytail held by the large man’s hand while the young woman gulp, gulp, gulp. Gulps. 

Pumping her vibrator in and out, orgasming, yelling, “Oh why, why was I so arrogant in my youth,” her Spanish orgasm-accent delighting her husband standing under a rainfall showerhead in the open plan bathroom. Listening to his wife’s words again, “Why, WHY was I so precious about my vageen, my vageen, oh oh OH,” she screams, “my vageen… my vageen,” pumping her toy slower, “why, why was I more interested in dismissing men than enjoying my youth? So stupid,” her vibrator hums in agreement, “did I think I would never grow old?” her orgasm and regret slowly fading into sweaty sheets.

“I love you,” her husband says, wrapping a towel around his still wet body, walking closer to the bed, “darling, dining on ashes with a vibrator inside of you? Really? Really my love?”

She flicks it off but doesn’t remove it, “I have an idea,” she says.

“Okay…”

The vibrator hums again.

Sunshade, sun-blur filling the window. In complete privacy, dropping his towel, she stares into his eyes, “My husband… my love, let me tell you about all of the wonderful men, those wonderful, horny men,” vibration increases with a flick of her busiest hand, “the men that I should have fucked when I was young,” four eyes twinkle.

Laying down beside her, honesty-honey coating his throat, “And I will do the same for you,” kissing her cheek.

A PHONE CALL

A sunny week becomes another sunny week.

An old Bakelite phone, cracked, heavy and thick, Shanty picks up the handle, scrapes off some sand, dials numbers in the old, stick-your-finger-in, circular way.

“Hello,” a man answers.

Her small ear pressed solidly to the big black cup of an earpiece, “It’s me, Shanty here,” a bottom lip hanging low, bits of spittle leak, linking her lip to the heavy mouthpiece.

Silent for a few seconds, “Well well,” he replies, “an ex-girlfriend, one that I thought I’d never hear from again,” his tone giving away true feelings, “I guess you are calling me because

She interrupts, “The girls, my friends, here on the island,” her eyes bulge, “I know! I know they tolds you about my new French doll, my new French boyfriend,” she interrupts without care.

“Yes… that’s true. I was on the island recently,” he says, “the girls love to gossip… it’s their main hobby, and

“I don’t care,” she snaps.

“I do,” a smile warming his tone, “listening to girls’ gossip, and then writing stories, that’s MY hobby.”

“So,” her voice narrows, “you are still angrys that I stole your money and lied about… everything, huh, when we were togethers?”

“Fuck… no,” a smooth answer, “I know how to get my money back, and more,” his far-away voice much too close and calmly confident for her anger.

“FUCK, you will always be a loser,” she pushes words through reluctant sunlight inside the small phone cubicle, three bare-bamboo walls, an old wooden chair, and a phone that has listened to decades of stories, “I stole your money,” she continues, “because you are an idiot!” Kicking a bamboo wall, “I NEVA keep my legs together, because this is my time, my time, I will have everything, forever,” she leans forward, “YOU LISTEN TO MY WORDS,” her voice darkly threatening, “LOSER… YOU REMEMBER WHAT I SAY, YOUR LIFE WILL ALWAYS, ALWAYS SUCK… LOSER! I will break your life. I will break your life…”

I sit. I’m sunlight. Stuck on the horizon.

“Well,” Shanty says, short of breath, “you don’t have anything to say, huh?”

“Oh, I will,” he replies with the same infuriating confidence, triggering her hand to grip the handle tighter, “Shanty, you’re walking straight into a trap,” he says, “a trap that you are setting for yourself…” he sighs, “I don’t know what the trap is, but I know that you will fall into a hole, eventually. A hole you started digging years and years ago, minutes after you arrived on the island… hey,” his thoughts changing direction, “are you still telling that same old story when you meet someone new?”

“I will break your life. I will break your life!” frightening grey gravel in her voice, “I WILL BREAK YOUR LIFE,” smashing down the telephone handle CLANG.

GOSH

A bed. Floating in the sky. Flown high by a magic mushroom cloud. Emperor sized mattress, “Fuck. Kings. Fuck. Queens,” one, or maybe all the eight men say. White sheets, white pillows, fluffy abandonment floating in the pureness of the blue. Magic mushroom men, psychedelic in every pore, eyeball and soaring synapse. Eight strong, continental, rigid cocks.

Drugged.

Focused.

One. Word. One. Thought. At. A-time.

One pussy.

Doggy style, on hands and knees, Shanty opens her ears to the orders, “Back. Curved. Inwards. Pussy. Up. Up. UP,” hot breath from a voice, “when we cum, keep our cum… keep all of it, deep inside you… don’t let it pour out.”

Obeying, ass up, head up, her back half-moon bent inwards. Stunning sunshine, pussy high, ready to accept and keep every drop of injected cum. Closing her eyes, one cock sliding in, the blueness, the lubricating sky, another cock taking turns. One two three four five six seven eight, closing her eyes tight, not wanting to scream with delight. Three, five, one, two? It’s impossible for her to know who is dominating, all too sky-high, cocks of changing lengths, thickness, hairiness, smoothness, force. Each cock, its personality, removed from its man. She’s just feeling cock fucking the shit out of her cunt higher than the sky.

Cum. 

More cum.

More.

Another cock.

Cum.

Wet, all mixed in, sloshy, another cock slides in and out of her, easier, and again, another cock cumming. Again, again, creamy, creamier, all cream, all-all-all cream.

 Pointing at the last unspent cock, a sky-cock-god, sloshing itself into the feel of a hot, liquid, bisexual Christmas. Slosh slide fuck slosh, shooting the last load.

 A long sigh.

Biting a pillow with her whole mouth, Shanty’s half-moon, bent inward spine relaxes. The crescent inverts, her cunt emptying a tide… a sky-tsunami of cum.

ROSES

“Sorry, sorry Shanty, I’m so sorry that I was away in France for longer than expected,” Baptiste apologizes with a desperate wink, “there is a surprise for you inside of my bungalow, it’s already preparation. No. I miss speak, my sweet. It is already organized,” eyes pleading for forgiveness, “would you like to go there now and see your surprise?” he begs over the sound of propellers and clickety-clack from ivory wheel luggage.

“Well,” taking a moment or two, her nose up high, “I suppose,” she replies, hair twirling, yellow light rushing through every strand, Baptiste’s heart skips a beat, his eyes watching sunshine hair twirling, steaming, and broiling his boy brain.

Horse and cart take them away, slowly under the light of scattered palms, clip-clopping past drifting dunes and onto a pebbled street, finally, to the sandy laneway… decalescence inside his steel hard boner, trying to be patient.

Pushing open his bungalow door, Shanty walks straight into a fresh rose forest. A dozen-dozen, a bouquet banquet. One hundred and forty four roses drench the room, a stink of exotic, romantic escape. Falling to his bed, Baptiste smiles, gently fondling the nosegay placed beside his bed by a young room-maid constantly aflutter with romance, “Shanty, my perfect princess, come join me?”

Feline paws, proud of where the stronger stink is located, her tail up, crawling to him on all fours across the floor, stalking, pouncing to the bed, to his trousers, sniffing his pants just above the bulge, “Sniff, sniff… sniff,” looking up at him, “I’m checking to see if your…” she purrs, “dong-dong has been with any other womens, while you were in Francis.”

“Absolutely not,” he answers honestly.

A hug to roll her over, placing her beneath him, “Sniff, sniff… sniff,” he smells and smiles above her triangle, “and I am checking to see if your… ding-ding, has been loyal to me,” he says, the smell of a dozen dozen roses, plus one, invading and utterly saturating his brain.

Ding-ding, and dong-dong, play ding-dong – until an author far far away almost dies from embarrassment.

CAKE POP

Never setting.

My presence.

My omnipresence.

Inside beer bliss, without a care in the world, drinking frothy beer all day, bottles bounced by Shanty and Baptiste’s frequent laughing. Tasty suds flowing down their necks, one after another. Sunlight has sent them to the relief of young islanders selling drinks from a bright orange kool kas, sloshing and rearranging bottles in the ice, trying to keep the beer cold.

A group of walking girls seem excited, “The Raiders, they are swooping on the clubs, looking for Cake Pop,” a friend of Shanty’s says, “get to Caruso’s Club quickly-quickly, the owner will be blocking the entrance in a minutes, so hurrys… hurrys.”

“Thank you,” Shanty replies, looking at Baptiste, “my Prince, there is only one thing to do?”

“Yes, what?” his doll-face, cool cat calm, “oh, get to Caruso’s quickly… eat Cake Pop and hide there until the raids are over,” he adds.

“Your island-life progress. So fast, it’s astounding me,” gulping the hot, final bitter dregs of her beer, “you learn fast… c’mon, let’s go.”

“THESE WHORES.”

Running up the sandy laneway, dashing past a mishmash of holiday bliss, turning left, running, turning right, laughing, running faster under thatch roof squares shooting shadows onto their scampering feet. Turning left, turning right, running and running, stopping. Knock-knock-knocking on the secret back door to Caruso’s, “Come in, come in, you’re the last to arrive,” the owner says, quickly bolting the door behind them, the staff stacking large blocks of timber and concrete, barricading the door.

Inside the small club, Baptiste smiles at the considerable effort they have taken to block the larger front entrance, “Piles of chairs, a sideways pool table, and three old refrigerators will keep the hypocritical raiders away,” he smiles.

Cake Pop sweetness slides down the throats of everyone at the private party, the grateful and sweaty staff doing the same. Washed down with beer, settled with a shot of island rum, the party pumps quickly from holiday rap and quick, young metabolisms.

I still shine, blissfully glowing – magically upwards from Caruso’s floor. I’m light from a cement floor, and the occasional cracked zima blue tile diffusing my brilliance, a breathable swimming pool of air, an oasis of reflections.

Caruso’s.

Alone.

An island.

An island inside of an island.

Holiday-rap drifts to deep, deeper house.

Deep house glides to chillout.

Chillout becomes… beats, bass, bass-bass, a basy bass, beat, beat, beat. Cake Pop licks its tasty way into every cell of thought and tune.

All stress gone. Attitudes gone. Shirts slip off, no girls ask their boyfriends to do it – shirts slide off tanned skin when they’re ready. Panties find their way to the floor, skirts still on, no boyfriend suggests, there’s no need. The ease of Cake Pop, hour by hour, the memory of outside, outside? Evaporating. Rules? Grammatical errors? whats that? People playing pool, talking, drinking, breasts, bare nipples, men, women, just nipples – beautiful, pink, brown, pinky-brown. Bottoms of men and women mingle. Everyone shares the same bathroom. Inside the glory of Cake, there are only ‘spaces,’ a tolerance, connection to the source – love for the beautiful legs of a friend’s partner. No touching needed, desired, or even thought about. Respect. ‘We’re all the same.’ Cake… Men, happy for other men to gallery eye their girlfriend – she’s a masterpiece to be viewed, savoured, framed, delightfully alive. Cake high girls are happy, proud that their boyfriend’s manscaped cock, or wildly hairy cock can all hang and mingle, tingle with the other men. Playing pool, drinking beer, white, black, brown, pool, beer, and each other. It’s just cock, or a leg, a trimmed vagina, beat beat beat, mmm, beat, mmm, drinking, playing more pool, vibing to the next song. Wishing that they could be together, zoned, always, forever.

The second hit of Cake, time is nowhere. Time?

Baptiste hits the white pool ball – it slices the black ball, spinning around and around on the green felt, “I play so much better when I’m high,” he laughs, happy that another man and his girlfriend are nude, talking to Shanty about the Moon? Or Jupiter? It doesn’t matter. Inside Cake Pop, inside the source, it doesn’t matter.

Still watching the black ball spinning, planetary, an orbiter on green felt. Bam, the ball drops into the pocket, “Yes,” he calls out, arms wide and high, a round of applause well earned, males and females, and everyone in between relishing.

Cake.

Pop.

Relax.

I shine. “I’m kitty, I’m a little kitty,” a petite girl, laying on her back whimpers, completely comfortable on a half-hidden daybed. Russian blonde hair, blue eyes, smoky, milk skin, milk mind, a pure twenty year old angel in every atom of her soul. “So pwwwittyy, my kitty,” rubbing her clitoris slowly with a white-tipped, purple-painted fingernail gloriously shining from an expensive manicure. Sweetly masturbating the pinky-pinkest of a clitoris, “I’m a little kitty, a pwwwitty little kitty,” she says, fully inside the idea of being ‘her clitoris.’ Rubbing, talking to herself inside solitude, smells, and safety. Nobody looks, everyone gives her space, letting her enjoy the ecstatic fantasy. Respect flowing, saturating every soul inside my blue-air light pool, souls swimming inside the tang of flesh and respect. “Sooo pwittyyyy…”

Sitting on sofas, men, boys really, males that are growing, boys becoming men looking into the eyes of a stunning naked girl, hearing her words, watching her eyes as they ebb, glow, flow, talk, explaining her thoughts. ‘She’s a real person,’ the boys realize, ‘a real person.’

An hour floats past? More? More hours. Balmy blue in Caruso’s.

Shanty asks with an enormous tangerine smile, “Baptiste, did you take both of these?” she says holding an empty packet that had contained a Chinese herbal dick drug, and a big blue Viagra, for fun later.

“Yeahhhh… that’s what he told me to do, take both.”

Laughing, “No, no no no, no no, no!” Shanty’s voice, contagiously funny, “I was listenings to the conversation, the staff said, when you get home, DO NOT take both of them.”

Jawbone dropping, open-mouthed, “Uh hmm.”

Shanty takes control, “C’mon, get dressed, I’ll take you home,”

Islander staff assist, giggling between themselves after hearing about Baptiste’s mistake, ushering them towards fresh bottles of water, the secret back door, and into a horse and cart.

“Do you feel ok?” Shanty asks, both naked again after a quick and refreshing shower in his bungalow. 

Lying flat on his back, he can’t reply. He’s worn out. Tired? Asleep? Dead?

Slow, regular breathing satisfies Shanty. Laying on her side, facing away from Baptiste, nestling a cheek into a pillow – happy and comfortable in the sensuous room, her eyes close.

“Huuu wahhhh?”

Her eyes try to close.

They can’t.

“What’s happening?”

Trying to push her eyes closed again, feeling unusual energy coming from behind her, head shaking, ‘Huuu wahhhh,’ her eyes closing. It doesn’t work – she can’t. Something is behind her, something powerful. It’s not Baptiste, it’s something else.

“One more try,” whispering to herself, forcing reluctant eyes to close, “shit,” turning over to see Baptiste’s sleepy face, beyond passed out, and his cock more rigid than steel, pointing, pulsating towards heaven.

Staring at a monster, amazed by the energy radiating, spiralling out of control from his dick, “A COCK, with a life of its own,” she whispers, “huuu wahhhh,” she fights for control over herself. Looking closely at the tip of his penis, pulses of pre-cum spit out, clear edible juice sliding down his smooth knob, petite pulses of liquid screaming for action.

“Huuu wahhh,” unable to control herself, throwing her cunt onto his cock, sliding it down, her body following a second or two later. Cunt slides up “Ahh,” she orgasms, collapsing, shuddering, sweaty, rolling away.

Flat on her back, breathing fast, “What the hell,” glancing over at his erect cock – still trying to ram a hole in the roof of the bungalow, the sky, the Universe, the multiverse, and poke God in the eye.

Exhausted from the amazing orgasm, Shanty drifts away into a perfect sleep.

I bake. Never-ending.

Hour after hour, after hour, after hour.

Slowly waking up, one cell at a time, four nostrils sniff sniff a sweltry, pussy smell fairyland of ‘what the FUCK happened when we got home?’

 Baptiste looks down at his crazy hard cock, still pointing, still pulsating, “Shanty,” his faint, French-accent words, mood memories wash over his waking face, hazy memories surfacing, “my sweet, did you fuck me when I was asleep?”

“Hmm,” her eyes bulging, looking at his cock, “YES!”

His delayed orgasm, too spectacular for words to describe, redecorating the bungalow.

BLUE OAK LAGOON

Hours, weeks, seconds, months, days. All the same.

All daylight.

A sucking surge, another wave, salty smells soaking through their minds, Baptiste and his friends glide across a newly discovered break on a remote beach. Ocean roaring, sun on young backs, waves, surfboards underneath their strong feet, shouting delight to each other from the thrill of riding nature.

On a perfect balanced glide… one of those rare moments, Baptiste’s back, completely straight, riding a wave, chin up, approaching the beach, the forest ahead blowing a rush of fresh jungle air clouding across the beach – the wave beneath him dissolves, water retreating, frothing into the sand, his surfboard suddenly shipwrecked on the shore. Standing tall, thoughts free and happy. Light bounces off the beach, a spotlight heading over the top of the jungle, pushing through rice fields, rising over a mountain, rolling down to the main village where surfer girlfriends are busy shopping and gossiping in crests of excitement – surfing their boyfriend’s cash.

Shanty’s left eye pivots a millimetre to the left – a fraction of a second before her right eye.

She spotted somebody. It’s a famous actor from televisi. “Bye-bye everyone,” scurrying away without waiting for a reply. Trying to run, holding shopping bags in both hands, big bags bouncing against each other, “Hello, I’ve seen you on televisi,” she gushes after reaching the actor stunningly fast.

“Hello,” he says, eyes instantly drilling into her, a tingle already in his pants, “and you are?”

“I’m Shanty.”

Chatting about nothing, helping her carry shopping bags, walking faster than needed. Within a few minutes, passing through hedges trimmed into the shape of unknown galaxy letters, and into the Blue Oak Lagoon.

Eyes spinning, astounded, “Huuu wahhh,” her open mouth can’t close.

He smiles – seduction skills will barely be required, she’s already said, ‘this is my time, this is my time,’ repeatedly.

“OOH! I’ve never, evers, been to this hotel,” her curved eyes marvel at the bluer-than-blue lagoon, decorated, dripping, surrounded by hundreds of tree huts hanging from tangled vines drooping from a massive oak rising majestically from the middle of the lagoon – wooden arms reaching over the water and holding the homely huts in the air.

“Is it a dream?” she asks.

“No… it’s real.”

Dropping her shopping bags, he does the same – staff wandering past, ghosts in shadows of blue pick up the bags in soft-slipper silence.

“So quiet, no noise at all?” Shanty can barely breathe.

“There is a sound here, Queen Shanty,” whispering, “listen carefully,” he watches her thin neck stretch, her chin rising to help her ears open to the sound of naked Nihona women. “They are always in groups of six,” his voice vibration low, “always happy, always splashing, perfect teeth, bodies-brown,” he breathes in, “and always, always in groups of six,” waving his head from side to side, “and they always have a red-dragon tattoo on their back, or their leg, or breast, or somewhere,” his breath releasing. “I don’t know why… but it is wonderful.”

Absorbing this utterly new atmosphere, Shanty surveys the lagoon with island-eyes, lips twitching, fascinated by another group of six naked Nihona, frolicking under the oak tree. Another group of six a little further away, and another, performing the same splashing and happy toying with water and each other.

“Many, manys set of six, perfect Nihona… it is a wonder… A true wonders,” she continues, gasping, “look, that group of six, close to the tree trunk, they are… they are all twisted together?”

“Their tattoos, Queen Shanty,” excitement in his voice, “watch closely, the red dragon tattoos, look, they are becoming one writhing animal,” he exclaims, electrified by the tattoo dragons, one on each girl, combining, becoming one – giant dragon. Six people morph into a slowly spinning ball of flesh and dragon tattoo, turning, splashing in the water. Fucking itself.

Breathless from the sight, Shanty allows the actor to lead her by the hand up steps of moss, fallen leaves, and brick. Smiling at the entrance of his hut, lattice shutters send squares of light gently scattering all over to welcome her, “This is my hut, under the oak,” delivering his line.

The beds all natural fibre sheets, wealth rubbing on her skin – clothes slip off, no effort, no nothing, no need to seduce, “A famous cock,” Shanty breathes, “go on, fuck me.”

Nihona girl’s well-tuned ears and culturally sophisticated giggles splash from below, tight tit jiggles from under the oak tree, everyone safe under its strength.

Hours of pleasure pass. Getting too hot, the televisi personality pulls his cock out of her pussy, straddles her body, moving forward, one knee on either side, wanking himself to a lion roar orgasm, an immense relief, shoulders slumping.

Shanty’s still eager eyes, “Can I have a photo of us together… please,” starry-starry eyed, “please…”

“No,” he replies with an actor’s genuine face, “I am so sorry, Queen Shanty, there can be no photo of us, together,” a soft finger reaches out, touching, pressing under her chin, tilting her precious face, “because I want to remember you, always remember you,” emotion pours, desperate words of true love, “I want to remember you, just the way you are…”

“Oh. Oh. Oh… Huuu wahhh… you are so sweet,” she says with cum dripping down her face.

POTATO BED

The tallest palm tree on the island sways with a satisfying sky tickle, green fronds forever brushing blueness above.

Below, belted around its trunk, the circular, sunken pool bar is packed with multi pastel bottles of alcoholic holiday juice. Apricot light bounces beatitude over the infinity swimming pool.

Forever.

Just before sunset.

Surrounding the water, daybeds sprawl under umbrellas, a village of shady alcoves. Small groups of people chat and bask… seducing shoulders move to the softest of Lofi. Everyone cuddled and huddled under the smell of a salty ocean blanket.

A group of rich European men walrus on a sun lounge, slathered with gorgeous island girls. Flowers and champagne bottles sprout from an enormous ice bucket in the middle. The girls laugh while holding crystal flutes filled with bubbly – happily chatting with men of many accents.

“This is my time,” Shanty says to everyone, “I have my man, my man doll, he is in Francis again, but he will come backs, sorry, come back,” she says, sloshing champagne, “gentlemen, I don’t need your moneys, MONEY,” everyone laughs, their blood warm from champagne soak.

Nearby, an older mum with large ears refuses to see the glory of the hazy infinity pool mere meters from her face. Her complaint letter begins with an angry pencil scribbling on a white scrap of paper.

‘Dear Potato Bed Management. I AM A WOMAN! And I have a complaint. Here at Potato Bed, there are SO many beautiful young people beside the pool – it’s very upsetting for us older mums! How are we supposed to enjoy ourselves when we must look at this! IT IS A DISGRACE! Too many beautiful people. Fix the situation!’

Lifting her pencil with satisfaction, having decided that a short complaint letter is best. Looking away with clouded eyes, not enjoying the sky. Looking back down at her piece of paper, my light has already faded her carbon scribble, words are disappearing into yellow paper. Angry, she stands, heading back to her hotel room as fast as possible. ‘Well,’ she exclaims to herself, ‘my new Kata Cowboy will probably be looking for some… attention.’

In the sun by the pool, Shanty finishes another glass of champagne.

“We need one, only one of you, one of you angels for our party,” says a European man, reaching through flowers, stems and petals, grabbing a champagne bottle. Diamonds diamonds diamonds on his fingers splintering and shattering light into island girl’s wide, hungry eyes.

“We are offering respect,” a walrus man says with honesty, “respect wrapped in a lot of money,” his horny, Hellenic voice rumbling – the island girl’s bikini bottoms raining.

“Sure… ladies, it is an unusual exploration, of the physical and the,” he holds five clenched fingers to his lips, kissing them, “muah,” fingers fly apart, “SWEETNESS of life,” he finishes smelling of vanilla, lavender and experience.

“A bisexual group of Continental men, yes, eight of us,” another man explains, “perhaps what we want, maybe, yes, maybe, it is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, for ONE of you,” sliding his fat wallet to the circular table so everyone can see its tightly packed Benjamins. Hundred dollar notes, a thick bunch, a money tongue of cash waterfalling dangerously, licking the air, wetting the sensational, barely hidden, volcanic stink erupting under the meagre material of bikini bottoms.

“I’ll do it,” says Shanty, “let’s go… NOW!”

GREEN MONSTER

A happy and fit couple, regular visitors to the island, they settle into their barstools eager to watch the all too frequent ‘Leatherface show’ unfold.

“Has the old lady snapped?” the man asks.

His partner replies, “I think she has?” grabbing a lazy beer, she continues, “the old cow… she’s finally going to explode?”

On the other side of the bar, Leatherface smokes a cigarette placed in an Audrey-super-long fag holder, “THESE… THESE… THESE WHHHORESSSS,” spit and smoke flying from the corners of the hole plastered to her wrinkled, tobacco stained, elephant skin face, “WHORE! WHORES! WHORESSS!” erupting again, her throat trumpeting above the laneway’s serenity, discharging displeasure down the sand louder and louder.

“You are just jealous,” says the young man sitting strong at the bar.

“Hey hey,” his girlfriend nudges his arm with her elbow, “shhhh, baby, this is her bar, Leatherface has owned it for years.”

“Ha, who cares, Leatherface is driving this bar to bankruptcy from her backstabbing and complaining,” he says, looking at his girlfriend smile suspiciously.

“WHAT?” Leatherface walks towards the couple, screeching, “I heard that!”

Unfazed, “You are jealous of the young women,” the man says, sipping his refreshing beer held with a strong arm, “clearly, huge green monsters live inside THAT coconut,” looking at her head.

“FUCK YOU,” Leatherface yells.

“Jealousy, that’s what made you scream when a group of island girls wearing bikinis walked past,” he continues, “you exploded, once again, we’re all bored with it.”

His pretty young partner, a smile as smooth as her skin, enjoying her beer, relaxing under sweet sunshine, “Ma’am, you are very jealous.”

“ISLAND GIRLS,” Leatherface slathers, “THEY ARE JUST WHORESSSSSSS… you are white,” she screams, “why are you defending these WWHHHORESSSSS?”

“WHORESSSS,” Leatherface repeats.

“Hmm,” the strong man’s partner, offering a tilted head of reconciliation, “perhaps, Ma’am, you could leave people alone?”

“FARKINGGGG WHORES,” the old lady yells, turns around and walks away – feet stomping to the other side of her bar.

“Well well, this is fun,” the man says.

“Oh yes,” his partner smiles, “we have tried to be polite… we have done our dues, let’s have some fun yeah?”

Leatherface returns to their side of the old wooden bar, hiding something in her hand – held behind her back.

“Mrs. Leatherface, Ma’am,” his girlfriend says.

Her boyfriend holds his ribcage together with firm hands.

“Ma’am,” she continues, surprisingly polite after so many beers, “you have chosen one man to be your husband for life. I’ve met him, he’s lovely. But you still have a problem with what everybody else does? Why is that? Hmm? You have your husband, and he is loyal, very loyal to you, so, just, shut the fuck up!”

The old lady’s face tightens. Is it the last drought? The last cell of her face is going to permanently, utterly, dehydrate? I sit in the sky. Waiting.

“Ma’am,” the beautiful young woman continues, “I am not stupid, I have seen the world, many times over,” her educated, moderate voice explains, “the truth is, too many white girls love to sit on their pussies, and tease men. So, so many girls seem to enjoy teasing men, MORE than they enjoy sex,” she laughs from her own experience, “enjoy teasing more than having real sex!”

A strange noise gurgles… it seems to be coming from within Leatherface.

“Ma’am,” she continues, decorating her speech with delightfully infuriating politeness, “Asian women have less ego. Asian women, they like to fuck, much more than white women do.”

“PROVE IT,” Leatherface says, gaining some composure, confident of a quick victory, fluffing cigarette smoke high into the air well above their heads where it hangs, and drops, clouding their faces.

With educated, balanced and sweet lips, “Prove it? Oh so easy. It’s true, Ma’am, because there are, many, many, many more Asian people than white people.”

Swigging his beer, her boyfriend nods, “I’m proud of your astute, concise, batshit crazy but delightfully delivered words,” he says laughing.

“The real problem is,” the woman continues, “dumb people,” she says with a glint slicing sideways in her eyes, “dumb people, for some reason, now have a voice, and dumb people should not have a voice… Anti-intellectualism is stupid. For example – just because you are angry, Ma’am, and self-righteous, it doesn’t mean that you are CORRECT,” she smiles from the experience of education and extensive travel, “if you shout a lot, then somehow, you’re right? What. The. Fuck?” She sips beer, “Hey, Ma’am… give yourself an IQ test, if you are below average, and you are… then smile at your own, delicate, snowflake brain, because… the burden of thinking is not for you,” she doesn’t need to take a breath, “leave the stress of thinking to the shoulders of people who know better. Grow up. Stop yelling at the islander girls, leave them alone.” Tilting her beer bottle towards Leatherface, “Darkness is the natural state of the Universe, and YOU ARE DARK. It takes REAL effort to shine!”

Her boyfriend laughs, “Holy shit babe, RRRRANT OVER? Or?” he chuckles, “I love it, I love it, I love it babe,” sunshine laughter fills the bar, flowing down the sandy lane of curious ears.

Leatherface says nothing. A hidden hand, the other smoking.

“Gosh hey,” the young woman continues, putting down her beer and licking her lips, “okay, Ma’am,” she thinks for a few seconds, “how will ‘the West’ defeat ‘the East’ when they attack us? What army do we need to build? What army do we need to win this future war?”

Leatherface smokes and blows and billows.

“Ma’am, we need an army of white women, with their legs apart!”

The beer flying out of her boyfriend’s nostrils bounces off the bar. The bar staff giggle and the other customers within earshot chuckle.

“You’re both shhhhite, dirty white-trash” Leatherface growls.

“Oh really,” she replies, “I’m a doctor, and my boyfriend is a personal trainer. By the way, he allows me all the sexual freedom I need and I give him the same,” she winks, “Ma’am,” smiling softly, “Ma’am, you are angry at ‘the island girls’ because you are old… and your time has,” her free hand flutters, “your time has passed,” sipping on her beer, “it’s your issue, it’s your fault if you didn’t enjoy your youth… nobody else is to blame.” She relaxes, “Hey, Ma’am, when you were young, did you ever accept drinks from a man, with no intention of returning the favour? Return the favour by buying him a drink? If you did that, and I know that you did, then YOU, you are also a whore,” she winks, “a drink-whore, because you alluded to the boys that sex was ‘on the horizon,’ but you had no intention of delivering. So, in your own construct, in the information buried in your tone when you open that hole in your face and yell down the laneway,” she points, “you are WORSE than the whores you scream about, because those whores DELIVER on their promises!”

“I didn’t want to FUCK AROUND when I was young,” Leatherface says, “I am a woman of the HOLY CHRIST,” she continues, sucking on a new cigarette, blowing the smoke backward this time, straight into her islander staff.

A second of silence – people gathering thoughts.

The young woman leans forward with a cheeky smile, places her free hand SLAP flat on the bar, “Look directly into my eyes, Ma’am,” her resolute hand firming further, “and swear to God that you are telling me the truth.”

Brain spinning, cigarette dropping to the floor, “FUCK YOU,” Leatherface shakes with rancid insanity, revealing that her hidden hand holds a knife moving fast in a semi-circle stabbing the girl’s hand nailing it to the bar.

Her boyfriend’s beer drops to the floor, both hands fly, reaching for her hand, pulling the knife out of the wooden bar, spreading her fingers apart to check the damage. “The knife,” he says, catching a breath, “it went straight between your fingers,” he relaxes, “you only have a scratch,” relief sits in his eyes – something very, very different in his clenching fist.

I sit in the sky.

Stuck.

Unconscious, Leatherface is dragged away by her feet. Simmering emotions erupt into cheering delight and laughter in the bar – beers for everyone are passed around, clinked together, gulped, celebrated in a party for all the laneway.

The sound of the punch has sparked great debate at the bar. Everyone wants to talk – “What was the most satisfying sound? His fist smashing her nose? The squelch of cartilage compressing? The back of her head hitting the cement floor? No no no, the applause from her staff – THAT was the most glorious sound.”

The story will be repeated for months.

Years.

Sitting above the ocean horizon.

Always the same.

I shine.

Palm trees shake and shudder, a frond falls to the ground. Leatherface takes a sad journey, down the lane, through the palms, moving past the soft roar of the ocean, all the way to the hum of plane propellers. A large brown suitcase, dumped on the gravel without ceremony, well worn, a million memories of the island soaked into its hide. Leatherface stews with her sullen baggage, both banished from the island forever, wondering where it all went wrong.

HOW SAD, HOW LOVELY

Days.

Months.

Weeks.

Nobody cares.

Lacquer, faded and cracked, layers of love shedding from an old guitar and an even older wooden chair. Instruments of music and comfort serving their purpose without complaint.

Happy to have a small concert of listeners sitting in the sand, Connie Converse starts singing about the way springtime seems to linger, magically, simply by pressing little bunches of flowers into a man’s hand. A man? A playboy? A little bunch of cheap, insignificant flowers, simply pressed into the hand of a man, a long time ago or will it be tomorrow?

Her audience, captivated eyes, emotions drifting, pupils changing between the shape of an almond and the optimism of an orange. Suddenly depressed, suddenly upbeat – bittersweet tones strum on a guitar with no solution, except the happy agony of breath gliding up and down the sandy laneway, a voice happy to be heard.

Strumming the final chord, the song is over. Connie’s thick, black rimmed glasses bounce light into the eternal sky. Taking a breath, reluctantly letting it out, she stands. Resting her guitar against the wooden chair, accepting forever, wandering away, leaving a guitar leaning against a chair, instruments in sand and sunlight slowly shedding the cracked skin of time.

Across the lane, the sadness from Connie’s song still reverberates in Jazzy’s old mind – fogged from years of drinking Arak in his own, intimate and welcoming bar made out of bamboo, spider webs and conversation.

A listening lady has been intently looking at Jazzy while the song played. “Mr Jazzy,” she asks politely, “you could be from anywhere,” she respectfully points with her eyes, “your nondescript skin, your salt and pepper, barber less hair,” her smile warms, “your mixed accent, so safe and so secure, a blanket of words. But, you are hiding something. Travels from… from every continent, every culture, and many, many, sweaty foreign beds,” she blushes, “I assume?”

Jazzy sips on pure Arak.

“You could be from anywhere, anywhere at all,” the listening ladies throat tightens, “but not from here,” she says, hoping to poke his mind into action, “I am anxious to hear the story of an old man, whose bar is called ‘Jazz Inn,’ and the owner calls himself, suspiciously, ‘Jazzy.’”

He nods, beyond bloodshot eyes scanning the small group of people sitting at his bar. Starting his story with a burp from his liver, “My bar is the only bar in the laneway that’s made from bamboo, and only bamboo.” Quietly, in crammed comfort, twenty or so travellers from around the world wait for him to continue, sitting in bamboo stools, with bamboo walls on three sides sagging from memories and a tad of reluctance, disappointed that they’re still required to do wall duty. The toilet out the back, walls that have been scribbled on by couples copulating, then writing love messages, and taking a sweet pee together.

Everything waits.

Time is so sharp when it doesn’t exist.

Jazzy shakes his head, it’s a useless attempt, he’s unable to let the Connie Converse echo slip away. Managing another sigh, a sip from his glass of Arak, teeth clinking on the rim from a lousy aim, he speaks, “In the big city, where I was born,” he says, “motorways, when viewed from the big hill behind my parent’s house, they looked like blood vessels,” his unsteady hand struggles to hold the glass.

Beers are sipped, couples in love wait, singles mingle in the quiet dry draft of a man telling his story.

I sit in the sky, just above the horizon.

“Motorways,” he continues, “from that hill, I could see thousands of little white lights heading in one direction, and thousands of little red lights heading in the other,” eyes shimmering brain light engrams. Knowing that he needs to explain his words further for his tiny bar concert, hand shaking, he continues, “A flurry of white headlights going in one direction, a flurry of red taillights going in the other,” slurring, “the blood vessels of the city, long red snakes of blood cells flowing throughout the city, and in the other direction, white blood cells.”

Everyone waits.

“Often, I stood up high and proud,” his back stretches a millimetre, “on that hill, looking down on the motorways of my city,” his glass of Arak swirling dangerously close to the rim, “I never saw the brain,” he sips, sips again, and takes a gulp, “I watched those red and white cells flowing, pumping furiously around the city. Why? What did they do? Where were they going? NUTRIENTS TO NOWHERE,” he scoffs, “they were stress streams of pointless travel.”

In silence, the staff top up his glass.

“The blood ways,” he continues, “supporting nothing of importance,” taking a warm sip with a sanguine tongue, “so I left civilization,” glass slapping down on the bar with bamboo punctuation, “to live here, on this island.”

All eyes watch him, curious.

A television of memory, Jazzy’s eyes flicker, everyone tuned, he turns, looking down the laneway with his old eyes, “It was a much smaller walking track, just for feet, nothing but bamboo bars and straw huts,” his tv eyes broadcasting pictures, “it became a bigger walking track, big enough for a bicycle or two,” eyes flickering static, “I saw it become wide enough for a horse and cart,” he cries, “rainforest died, the cows were taken away, bungalows became bigger.”

“What about the women?” the listening lady asks randomly.

“Island girls! Oh, they were wanita naif,” Jazzy exclaims, “girls who were thirty years old, well, as measured by spins of the Earth around the sun,” his octopus arms orbit wildly, “but only twenty years old,” his arms relaxing, “in the experience of the mind,” lifting a sad chin, “they walked up and down this laneway fascinated by the new things, new items arriving at the airport from impossibly far away.”

“What items?”

“If I leave this island,” ignoring her question, “my soul will wither, dehydrating into the colour of a dead dolphin,” he says, partially remembering the last line from his favourite book.

“What items?” the listening lady repeats.

Crushing gravity, memories, his life around a glass of Arak, unable to lift it, unable to taste it, he talks, “Items? Well… let me think. A surfboard made from fiberglass, not wood? Clothes made from plastic, not cotton? A wallet full of cash, not promises? A cock full of pleasure, not marriage?” The connection between his eyes and brain breaks from the confusion of conflicting black and white thoughts, dissonance frying his barbequed brain, “That’s all I have to say,” eyes fading away, blinking, losing power, switching off… he walks away.

“I remember those days,” the listening lady says to the bar, “I remember when this laneway was rainforest on both sides, full of screeching monkeys,” the creases on her face drip with lush and juicy memories. “I walked down this lane, oh, hundreds and hundreds of times,” miming her words with a weaving air hand, “only a decade ago, men whistled at me, excited after looking at my, mmm, my tight young bottom,” her head tilts gently, “and I hissed, or growled at every one of them.” Wistful dimples paint her cheeks and worldly chin, “I’m sure that some of those men, well, some of those boys, just young boys, young men looking for experience, I’m sure that some of them were very nice, and would have appreciated the feel of my, very firm bottom,” she laments, “why was I so arrogant? I could have been a teacher of sensuality, of gentle intimacy,” she smiles, “anyway, now I am older, and they don’t whistle at me anymore,” standing, she waves goodbye to the bar, “I wish they still whistled, I would be a mother of femininity, a teacher, a woman of substance,” everyone smiles.

All the men and women sitting in the bar look at her back as she disappears down the laneway. Faces revealing that they want to follow this woman, listen to her more, discover her every fold, her every crease, her every syllable, her reflections, and inflections. Above all, the crowd wants to taste every part of her soul breaking, womanly, heartfelt beauty. She is a daisy – a flower of maturity from an empire revival where ageism has evaporated.

“What a shame ageism only evaporates with age,” a girl in the bar ponders.

Not far away, in a bungalow, in a room filled with culture gathered from eclectic souls around the world, a listening lady eats chocolate by herself.

THE SWAMP

 “Don’t go there,” the red-haired man says to Baptiste, wisdom and sweet gravel coating his voice, “it is the only bad place on the island, the only place you should never, never go.”

“But my girlfriend wants more Cake Pop,” Baptiste says desperately, “she needs… the taste.”

“Don’t,” he begs Baptiste, leaning forward, “a walk into the swamp, eh, it can be the finish, the end of a young man, and his future. Bad people live there… very bad people.” Turning to look at the barman, “Eh, one small beer please,” the red haired man’s voice rattlesnake dry, quickly receiving the cold bottle, “thank you,” looking back to Baptiste, “my friend, don’t go into the Swamp, not for anyone,” lifting his beer, irrigating his throat, “nothing good happens there, go get Cake from somewhere else.”

“Nowhere else has Cake Pop,” Baptiste laments, “there’s a shortage of Cake all across the island,” his voice unsure, too much in love to listen, “the Raiders have been busy.”

Combing a hand through his thick red hair, “Then go without Cake for a while, eh,” he smiles, “just enjoy the beer, and the sex, eh?”

“Yeah… thanks, maybe I will, thank you Sir,” Baptiste nods and walks away, wondering and conflicted – the end of the laneway arriving way too fast, his decision already made, “If Shanty wants Cake Pop, then she gets Cake Pop,” he talks to his feet turning in the wrong direction.

Tall ferns, gentle trees and fertile grass, marching, trudging past and through them without care, sun on his back and money in his pocket. Step by step, the grass becomes drier, pricklier, some of the air he breathes stays stuck inside lungs after trying to get it out. Heavier air with a sour smell, lushness is being replaced by sour air lemons. Anorexic saturating light streams stronger from the depth and direction of the swamp.

‘It’s just a smell and a temporary blindness,’ he remembers Shanty saying, giving him directions and descriptions. ‘When you see nothing, except impossible light hurting your brain, then you are at the Swamp,’ she said to him, a girl’s silver lead eyes burning through darkness under my afternoon sun.

Walking into pure whiteness – until that’s all he can see, Baptiste stops.

“What do you want?” a voice says from inside the blinding light.

“Cake Pop,” Baptiste answers, trying to sound confident.

“How many slices?”

“Two please, Sir,” holding a hand to his face, trying to block out the pain.

“Fifty dollars.”

“Ok, yes, I have the money,” Baptiste pulls out his fat wallet.

“Ahhh,” the firm voice exclaims, “I can smell dollars, and there is a lot of smell in your wallet,” it breathes, sighing sour air, “would you like a beer, free for you, ahhh, my new friend?”

“Well, yes, a free beer, that is very generous of you, Sir, thank you.”

“Wait here, I will be back with Cake Pop and beer.”

Baptiste politely nods with gratitude to the incandescent camouflage. Waiting in impossible seconds, a beer slides into his hand, holding it, sipping it, wincing from the taste, “This beer is… this beer is… perfect,” he decides to say, calming himself. Taking a large gulp, “Very nice.”

“Drink it all.”

“Yes, yes, of course, Sir, it is refreshing,” stomach souring with every drop falling down his throat.

“Cake Pop is in your pocket,” the voice says, “ahhh have a safe trip back to the village.”

“Thank you, Sir, I will.” Feet walk away from the voice fast, hopefully in the direction of the field leading to the village. Sandals crunch on dry grass and more dry grass, ‘The grass should be getting moister already’ he thinks. ‘Oh, never mind,’ simply walking, trusting that his feet will lead him back to safety while blinking his useless eyes inside blinding light.

Frustrated, “The crunch crunch of this grass never seems to end,” he talks and sweats, “why am I sleepy?” Walking in another direction, and another, and another. “Circular thoughts trying to defeat circular steps? What am I doing?” Waving hands in front of his face, trying to brush the fake light away.

“A quick rest,” he says, “a nap… but why am I so sleepy?” Laying on the ground, a sleeping potion almost winning, almost pushing his mind to an ‘impossible to deny’ sleep.

“Help,” he says to himself.

His subconscious replies, shouting, ‘Eat the Cake Pop, eat all of it, quickly. Do it now!’

Desperate to stay awake, rolling himself in a dusty tunnel of near defeat, pushing through pure light, crunchy dryness beneath his body as he rolls and rolls, stuffing the Cake Pop into his mouth, swallowing, gulping it all down. Rolling, turning, sometimes slow, sometimes fast, waiting for the Cake Pop to seep into his blood and his brain, “C’mon, chase away the sleeping potion,” a single brain cell screams going in circles.

“How long have I been inside this light,” he mumbles, still rolling and crunching, minute after minute, rolling, crunching, waiting for Cake to win its battle with the potion. A roll, a crunch, a cycle, heart beating fast. More rolling and crunching. A drop of Pop licks his brain. Another drop, and another. Rolling slower and slower – finally able to stand up.

Looking down to check the wallet in his pocket, “I still can’t see anything, dammit,” he complains, slapping his pant pocket, trying to determine if his wallet is still there, “did I fall asleep?”

Staggering, slow steps. The effort, the elephant weight of his legs and feet. Cake licks inside his brain, each heartbeat pushing more Pop into the fight to stay awake. Each step lighter, each crunch below his sandals a little bit wetter. Walking and walking, glimpsing the outline of tall trees and gentle ferns, black and white silhouettes slowly gaining colour – step by step. More awake, more colour, more warm sunshine, less blinding light.

Finally, walking through the field in sunshine on thankful, sandy steps, arriving at the door of his bungalow, exhausted, walking inside confused.

“You have no Cake Pop,” Shanty screams, digging into his pockets, “and your wallet is empty?”

“My sweet I had a problem with…

Hearing the bungalow door slamming shut, then an ear on his doll face hits the floor smashed by a dull thud.

BAMBOO RAIN

Waking up from the longest sleep of his life.

His head, dripping with stale ginger. Turning, eyes looking at the emptiness beside him, the hollowness of the bungalow without Shanty. Feeling the ache in his chest, ‘How could she be so cruel,’ eyes crusty closing, ‘I can still smell her,’ sadness bakes him slowly back to slumber. A young man’s penis finds no reason to live, a young man’s penis cleverly decides to grow, just a bit, poking out from his sleeping pants, patiently, just in case.

Unusual noise from outside, above perhaps, waking him, ‘What is that? What? Surely… it’s impossible.’ With just enough strength, a change of clothes and a brush of teeth, walking down the laneway, talking to himself, “Look at this,” exclaiming, walking with hands out, palms up, enjoying the splashes, “rain is falling from the sky, from a perfectly blue, cloudless sky,” smiling at the other people enjoying the miracle, “they aren’t getting wet, it’s just me,” he says inside the private sun shower, looking at the horizon – sun shimmering across ocean waves.

“The ocean water, just below the sun, is it warming up,” Baptiste asks the pitter patter rain, “I’m alone on an island,” palming his way past low hanging wet branches, “it’s raining, in sunlight,” the joy in his voice matched by the thrill of drops on his skin. Water weaves its way through a larger palm tree, hundreds of fronds hanging over a bamboo fence, saturating the sand under his bare feet, clearing bad POP from his brain. “It was the shortest, longest journey,” he smiles.

Back inside the bungalow laying on expensive sheets, whispering, “I hear you,” lips aubergine from rain, teeth white and ozone fresh, “I will forget Shanty… yes, and I will meet some other… sensuous enchantments,” chest glowing, the smell, remembering his mother’s kitchen bake providing a much needed, extra rest.  

TITS

Taking a single step out of his bungalow, two sets of white tits bounce into his eyes.

Opposite his, on the veranda of their bungalow, tits are fishing for a fuck, successfully hooking Baptiste’s eyes. He smiles, “Two British beauties hanging for a fuck,” talking to the air, watching the girls dangle union jack tattoos, plump white boobs with cherry pink nipples, four fun bags looking for paradise party. Looking lower, bikini bottoms happily poke racing stripe snatches – soft tufts of pussy hair peek over the top. He’s meters away, ten maybe, it doesn’t matter, the smell slices him sharper. “Life. Ahh life… it does not get any better.”

British girls parade themselves, nipple giggling, determined, shameless in sunlight, pink nips on white tits, “Ok, ladies,” Baptiste says loudly, walking towards them and boldly into their bungalow – the door closing.

In a blur of colours, giggles, hungry groaning – Baptiste’s clothes hit the floor, pre cum dropping morse code dots – FUCK FUCK FUCK. Sliding into the first girl, “Ahh newwww pussy juice on my penis,” kissing and biting the other girl’s ear. Nibbles and new whispers for two pussies.

Do you like the way I say pussy?

Pussy.

Pussy.

Pussy.

“Hey, frenchy,” the unfucked girl yells, pulling Baptiste’s body across, to hers, “Ménage à trois involves THREE people,” she squeals, reaching down, jamming his cock inside, forcing her cucumber vibrator out to buzz by itself on the sheets.

“Your French…. is terrible,” he laughs, “but your cunt is wetter than your friends, so I shall forgive you,” fucking, sucking away on four tits, bodies roll, twist, turn, licking and fucking, doggy and dirty, the smell of two vaginas lathering his face.

Baptiste, sweating, fisting a wet cunt, the young woman’s pussy lubricated from above by her friend’s saliva sliding off her tongue, dripping onto Baptiste’s fist. He buries, punches it inside, rolls and twists his fist, and repeats. Baptiste yells to the girls and the sky, “Too much?”

Peaking, “It’s never too much,” she screams inside fisting success – a small move from her hips, asshole clenching, she squirts, ejecting a hot stream of smelly yellow hormone piss from that tiny hole, directing the stream with skill onto his face, splashing his doll eyes, moving her hips a little, spraying piss to her friends face, streaming hotter, stinky piss with a tighter cunt clench, orgasming piss gushes harder, bouncing off Baptistes’ hairless chest so powerfully it splashes back and onto the squirting girls orgasming face. Mouth open, tongue out, accepting each spurt splash of her own urine, screaming, screaming, not giving a fuck about anything except cum cunt piss juice pouring from their souls, “Fuuuuuckkkk.”

INTERMISSION

Crickets.

THE STORY CONTINUES

“That screaming from the British bitchs’ bungalow,” the older mum with big ears complains while laying on her back, nagging – again. “Everywhere I go, Potato Bed, the beach, a restaurant, everywhere, even here in my bungalow – young people are in my face or in my ears,” her cheeks hot, tongue hotter, fading backwards, almost gone, just a blur.

Fading forwards, growing, emanating on her bed, her new Kata Cowboy smiles. “Oh, come on now my darling, stop your hurtings, hurt?” the islander man corrects his words, “anyway, the scream scream screaming from the British and the Frenchy, darling… it has made my cock hard for you – again.”

Buried in a blur, rolling over, her mum mouth opens, ready to go down on a man who is half her age, “What happens on the island, stays on the island,” she demands.

“Yessss, my darling yes, come on… mummy… SUCK ME… suck me.”

Her mouth drops, the young man’s back arches, hips thrusting forward, “ahh, ahh, AHHHHH!” Contradictory crows laugh into the air above the bungalows, squawking their delight.

Sitting around a courtyard table in the middle of the bungalows, drinking and listening to the show, old men tip their safari hats in respect. Glasses of gin-tonic clink, memories of Lions that were not shot, Giraffes that were not chased, and pussies that may, or may not have been fucked, fill their ruddy faces.

CIRCLES

A week of fitful sleep.

In between each attempt, Baptiste pulls the curtain across for a quick snoop at what the British girls are doing.

“The party over there, it never seems to stop,” he says to himself again and again, biting his lip, “it’s tempting to go over there.”

Waking up alone, again, the obvious clique of the situation forces a wry smile.

“Dammit,” Baptiste whines.

Complaining to his pillows, rolling over, holding a hand flat on his heart, “Am I really, really in love with Shanty? I mean, seriously?” he wonders.

Another quick pull of the curtains – the current British girl’s party is getting bigger every hour. Looking away, walking around on the wood floor of his Bungalow, restless feet softly patting the wood with each step. The sound of laughing, giggling and fun inside new people’s voices drifts across from the British girl’s… party.

“What to do, what to do, what should I do?”

The enticing sounds of the party ringing in his ears get louder, his feet still don’t know which way to go. A hand raises, grasping his own throat, “I do feel like a beer…” he says rubbing his neck, “or maybe two,” a wicked smile forming on his beautiful lips, “those girls sure do know how to have fun.” More walking in circles, more wondering about why Shanty has never returned to his room. More holding a hand over his heart, “At least I’m not walking around in circles of indecision, talking to myself.”

“Dammit,” he realises.

MAGIC DUST

“I feel guilty about having sex with the British girls, says Baptiste.

The table is all his – he is the guest.

“The sound of their party is too strong,” Baptiste continues to the old men who are always sitting at the white-wicker table in the middle of the courtyard. A fan throws on-off-on-off shadows across their faces – rapid flashes of memories, past continents, women of many colours, lost love, laughter all neatly wrapped up in their crisp safari suits. Souls that loved adventure when they were young, finally finding a place to relax, gently muse, or assist a young man in need.

Listening to Baptiste’s long but interesting Shanty-monologue, enjoying the gin-tonics, always delighted by a new story, and hoping to help soothe yet another, young heartache. Happy to sip and listen to whatever-may-come to their friendly table. Drama, wonderful drama, as usual delivered directly from one of the many bungalows surrounding their gin-tonic table.

Baptiste is quiet, finishing with a polite, well received smile.

“Just when we think we’ve seen it all, something the same comes along,” one of the old men jokes. They all laugh at the fundamental truth of island life.

“A handsome young man like you,” another of the old men says, “you’re worried about matters of the heart? Tut-tut-tut now,” speaking with genuine care, “you should be partying with those sexy British imps.” They all concur, gin-tonics are sipped, liquid demonstrating that a party is Baptiste’s best way forward.

“Perhaps…” Baptiste says politely, “it’s better to be with the devil I know?” his crisp French accent sobering the table, “than yet more devils of the flesh? What is more escapable, a devil of the flesh, or a devil of the heart?”

Glasses are placed on the table, wise old faces drift into reluctant, but slowly welcome thought.

“Well, yes, perhaps,” an old man says, “if you are in love, then, well

“Then there is no choice,” another of the old men interrupts, “if magic dust has been sprinkled on you by the Universe, then… then…”

“Then your only path to happiness… is to hope that magic dust has been sprinkled onto her as well.”

The conversation with Baptiste started hours ago – the men resume sipping their drinks in silence. Finally, what needed to be said has been said. The fan blades above them flutter timeless shadows across faces filled with satisfaction.

Baptiste shifts uncomfortably in his chair… “Dammit.”

DON’T BE GREEDY

Gripping tightly to black Bakelite, the old phone’s cracked handpiece held firm to his ear, sweat sliding down Baptiste’s hand, “SHANTY!” he says.

“Hmm… so,” her reply crackles within the earpiece.

“I have missed you, my sweet, my princess,” he sweats.

“So,” her voice warming to just above absolute zero, “what do you wants from me,” cunning patience resting in every letter.

“I want… ahhhhh, anything, anything YOU WANT, my sweet Shanty.”

Silence echoes inside Baptiste’s earpiece, he slathers and he waits.

“I want a present,” Shanty breaks the silence, “somethings, mmmmm… mahal. Somethings EXPENSIVE,” she demands.

“My sweet Shanty,” he replies softly.

‘’Don’t be greedy,” her voice angry.

Baptiste’s teeth crush in frustration, lockjaw silence ticks away.

“Well?” she demands.

“My sweet, I have given you so much already, cash, the televisi, the horse and cart, the bungalow for your parents, the bungalows for your relatives, medical expenses for your Buffalo that desperately needed a hip replacement, my sweet, how can you ask for

“I GIVE YOUUUU SSSSEX,” her dinosaur voice growls, bouncing, echoing, booming loudly across the whole island – soundwaves almost breaking Baptiste’s bones.

Hanging up.

Calling her again.

Arguing.

Hanging up.

Calling her again.

I’m stuck, just above the horizon.

Hours and hours of argument, almost out of breath, his bottom lip hangs low, barely bothered to reach the handpiece, “My sweet, what do you want? Really? Fifty dollars, to fuck you?”

“NO!” changing her mind, “two hundred dollars, that is my price,” Shanty demands, dropping the phone to the ground, brimming youth exploding, knowing that he will come to her.

Turning to leave the bamboo wartel, kicking the old phone laying innocently on the sand, an old lady stops Shanty from walking away.

“I’ve been waiting here, for hours,” the lady says, “waiting to use the telefon,” she points a crooked, almost black islander finger, “listen to me, a girl who brings sex, and JUST sex to a relationship, she will bring disaster to herself, loneliness to herself, and… your cunt will dry up, and it will smell like fish.”

Laughing, pushing past the old lady, “Haaaa, stupid old lady,” Shanty shrills, “I have a rrrrich man coming to my bungalow, NOW, to buy my pussy,” she laughs, “and pussy is available… free free free all overs this island.” She walks away fast, basking in brilliance, “My time is now, and… my time is forever,” Shanty says smiling up at the sky, “my, time, is, FOREVER,” yelling louder to the warmth falling from above.

LUSH

Four tanned shoulders. Two faces glowing. Sparkles bouncing from seashells and surf, walking on a southern beach, turning a corner, Baptiste looks up.

“This is it,” Shanty says with a shy tilt of her head.

“My God,” his feet stop, “why didn’t you want me to see this before?”

Her bare feet grip the sand, islander toes digging deep, “Why would you want to come down here, to the south… it’s just villages, nothing interesting for a Europa man.”

“This wonderful… natural style,” he’s still mesmerized by the sight of her bungalow, “this is paradise my sweet.”

“Hmmmm, generations of my family live here,” she says softly, “it’s nothings compared to your castle-castle in Francis,” she leads him up and off the beach, passing an impressive green grey statue with glaring ruby eyes, “this is our temple,” she nods, walking past it.

Baptiste stares in awe. Past pure stone walls, up a stairway made of jigsaw rocks, leading to bungalows with roofs made from straw, coloured by the strongest sunlight – decorative peaks pointing to the blue sky. Bamboo walls rise from foundations of sand, warm, flat yellow rocks form easy to use stairways between bedrooms. Creeping tropical vegetation – quiet determination in lush tropical plants, some looking lazy in pots, others growing on walls, invisibly marching anywhere their roots can lick a nutrient and a drop of water.

Sunlight splashes, they walk under a canopy of trees, “It is paradise – everything seems to be alive,” Baptiste’s mouth agape, stuck in wonder as she guides him towards the courtyard. Strolling past clucking chickens, puppies yelping to their mothers. Older people… younger people, babies crying or drunk on soothing milk – all sitting or squawking or running around in a happy chaos. Smoke from a small fire – charcoal cooking vegetables and meat, some delicious jagung, the smells of life, salt, and yet more life around every corner. A breeze holding a hint of coolness from surrounding vegetation brushes its way across the island diorama.

Everyone nods and says hello, “Follow me,” Shanty says to him, squeezing his hand. Climbing up an extremely steep, narrow wood ladder – leading him quickly to a treehouse overlooking the beach. Breathless, standing in a room without walls painting a perfect view of the ocean. A room decorated by living lacquer wood and multi coloured pastel pillows scattered around the floor, smouldering incense pokes out of coloured bottles made for happiness.

“This is where I sit… to dreams about far-away countries, like Europa, SouthernC and Francis,” Shanty says in a daze, a visual overload with incense rolling between them, and off each other, “would you like to see my bedroom?”

I am the sun, sitting on the horizon.

Not moving.

Not setting.

WHITEWILDBEAR

Pushing aside the material waving in wind, “Welcome,” Shanty says.

Baptiste peeks inside – bamboo walls and a sand floor. Scanning, he notices an art-deco radio, pushing tinny, crackling music.

“An old Operadio,” he says, recognizing the brand, smiling at how casually it’s placed on a pile of old faded books. ‘Redbeard’ and ‘Whitebeard’ sit with blank pages, unread holiday books that she intended to read but didn’t, never moving past the front covers.

Smiling at his interest in the Operadio, Shanty walks over to touch its radiating sunrise grill with nostalgia. Twisting the huge volume dial on the front, “White-wild-bear, my favourite DJ from Roysia,” she smiles, turning her body, moving, curving towards the bed. A dance, an Arabian dance, silent feet on the sand. Her sarong glides off, laying down naked, back pressing into white cotton, pulling apart her freshly shaved folds of brown vagina, seashore lips, pink inside, venus-fly-trapping Baptiste’s tongue from the doorway to deep inside her pussy.

DJ music in his ears.

White.

Wild.

Bear.

A tongue inside heaven.

In her bed.

At last.

“Baptiste,” her seductive voice tickles, “do you have… a lots of, ah… juice-cock, in your juice-cock-bank, for me?” she says sweetly, “because, it has been a long time since we fucking… you must be full… in your juice-bank,” she moans.

His tongue flickers, finishing a musty dance. Chin rising, a quick kiss for the man in the boat, a giggle from Shanty, moving quickly, a kiss on her bellybutton, her lips, ploughing his cock straight up her, fucking, fucking, fucking to the rhythm. Two souls resonant in Operadio far-away white wild bear lyrics. The ambiance from more and more snow songs, young man’s poems, hopes, hurts, emotions intertwined – they cum, they sleep.

A limp bear resting in its cave.

Outside.

The sun. 

HONESTY ICE

Sunlight flickering on his waking face, different coloured sarongs hanging from the windows flapping in a light breeze. Baptiste yawns, “That was the best sleep of my life,” yawning again, “the happiest I have ever been,’ he thinks, ‘except for one thing… I have a shard of ice in my soul.’

Snuggled up to Shanty, his waking ears tune to soft sounds. Old ladies cackling across the courtyard, chickens’ scuffle, young men kicking a ball somewhere nearby – the sweet sounds of freedom… life drifting through the bungalow bedroom windows.

Shanty moves, arms stretch with a lazy smile.

“My sweet, are you awake?” Baptiste asks.

“Yes,” she purrs, “no… not reallys.”

Touching the piece of ice that has moved to his belly, rubbing it, moving the hand to wrap his arm around her, “Shanty… I didn’t have a lot of juice-cock, in my juice-cock-bank, for your tits, and face, and pussy – because I have been fucking two British girls.”

“WHAT?”

Smack.

“Where did that broom come from,” Baptiste says, ducking another angry swing from Shanty, “you were asleep seconds ago,” he pants.

“YOU FUCKS OTHER WOMENS! YOU ASSHOLE!” CRACK, the broom hits his head snapping the handle. Satisfied, dropping the broom, staring at him – furious.

Defeated, shocked, he sits on the floor, deciding that silence is the best option.

“You owe me two hundred dollars,” she demands.

His mouth opens – and closes.

“You agreed to pay,” she screeches.

Nodding, unable to argue – he did agree on the phone to pay her for sex. He tries to smile, “Yes, my sweet, I will get my wallet,” looking up, shocked to see Shanty already removing banknotes. Not commenting, his gentle face staying calm, “May I use the bathroom, please?”

She nods, sliding all of his cash into a wooden drawer with a clunk, and a twist of a thick old rusty key.

The large flat rock, solid beneath his feet in the bathroom, hoping it will help him to steady conflicting emotions. Looking in the mirror, studying his own eyes, head drooping, “Morceau de merde,” rubbing his chin, collecting his thoughts. ‘I come from so much wealth… prosperity, I am so lucky,’ looking up, gingerly talking to the mirror, “there has to be a way for me to get her to respect the amazing new life that I am offering in Francis,” he sighs, “she has never been away from these islands, perhaps she just doesn’t, or can’t understand?”

Looking away from the mirror, out the window, across the ocean towards the sun that never sets, he smiles, “I have an idea.”

Walking back to her bedroom, kicking the broken broom out of the way, Baptistes mouth opens

“I hate it here, I’m boring with it,” Shanty interrupts, anticipating his anger, “everything is rented – this land,” her hands spread out, “these bungalows, the kool-kas, the statue, everything, everything is rented with your money,” she says, “this island looks like paradise to you, because you are not from here…” hair wild waving in a female breeze, “your Francis life… that looks like heaven to me,” she breathes, “here. I am. I am

“Drowning?”

“YES. DROWNING,” she spits back.

Silent, thinking about the situation, remembering his childhood in Francis, an idea twirling in his mind, “Follow me Shanty.”

Wrapping sarongs around their bodies, she nods and follows. Walking down the steep stairs, cooled by the canopy of shade flowers and leaves hiding tiny lizards, across the sunny beach, and straight into the ocean.

Water up to their chests, looking at each other, eyes locked. Her large eyes wonder what will happen – his, defiant… steady and strong.

“Do you trust me?” he asks her.

“Nope.” 

“Wrong answer,” he growly sweetly.

Ocean water gently rises and falls in a comfortable swell, “You feel like your life is,” he can’t find the words. Trying again, “Do you feel like life is ‘drowning you,’ because you want to escape the islands?”

“Yes.”

“Then why are you always saying that ‘it’s your time’ and that ‘it will last forever?’”

“Because… it’s my time, and it will last forever,” she replies, eyes rounder than the sun.

Two bodies gently swaying, lifting and dropping with the water, the sound of far-away waves crashing in the background.

“Well…” he proceeds slowly, “I was going to ‘lay down the law’ to you, so to speak, teach you morality, seduce you with a future in Europa,” head shaking, “but we have often talked about these things,” he sighs, “it falls on your deaf ears, yes?”

“Yep.”

Smiling – a smile that she has never seen on his face before, “My name is Baptiste, I am a surfer, that’s all I do… surf. My name really IS Baptiste. This name has no special meaning to you?”

“Nope.”

“Then, my sweet princess, I will show you,” he says, “words don’t mean much to you, only actions seem to seep through your… beautiful skull,” the firmness in his face keeping her silent. “Your culture, it is built on superstition, divine intervention, and most of all, by live demonstration,” reaching out, putting his hands on the sides of her head, holding her tight, and pushing her under the water – holding her there.

Sunlight bounces on the water above her head, mixing with her hair flowing and tangling.

“What the fuck?” she yells, a few seconds after pulling her up, “why the fuck did you

“You say that your life is… like drowning,” he says.

“Yes, but

SPLASH. Pushing her under the water again, holding her down a little longer.

Pulling her up.

“Fuck this… you

Pushing her head down, holding it there much, much longer, amused by the way she isn’t struggling, “She only nags when she has access to air,” Baptiste says, feeling the mild inconvenience of an anger fuelled erection, “fuming blood has to go somewhere,” he shrugs.

Underneath the water, Shanty’s eyes roll upwards to look at the fresh sunlight above, the freedom of air, and the man’s face, blurred – but still promising.

Pulling her up slowly, releasing his hands.

Grabbing her nose, squeezing the ocean from her nostrils, her calm face fascinates Baptiste.

Walking in silence from the water, sitting side by side on the beach, thinking for long minutes on sand sparkling with diamond intensity, finally, she speaks, “I didn’t care if you drowned me, because I am so bored with this life.”

He waits. He listens.

“I promise… my Baptiste, with all of my heart, I will be a betters person for you, I promise.”

Taking a long walk on the beach, communicating, hoping, looking for a way to build a lasting happiness.

Days.

Weeks.

Months of soaking sunshine.

He surfs while she shops.

Finding new ways to fuck and lick, learning about each other, when he returns from surfing covered in salt, her shopping bags spread out on the floor around the bed. Talking, then wrapping each other inside the sweetest of love.

“I have the perfect girlfriend,” he yells, riding his surfboard on the tip of a wave, or cuming inside her, or simply walking down the laneway, hand in hand.

Shanty glows, hooked, enjoying each new breath of air, dedicated to the dream of living in Francis – waiting for the day when Baptiste can introduce her to his parents, and finally fly away to mutual happiness.

Nothing can go wrong. 

CAN I TASTE IT

“I’ll be in Francis, only two weeks. I’ll get my mother and bring her back to the island, my love, so I can properly introduce you to my beloved parents,” Baptistes puppy dog voice pleads for understanding, “I can’t wait any longer, you must meet them, and, it can only be done formally at a celebration dinner – a proper introduction.”

“Why can’t she fly here by herself,” Shanty teases.

“Again… my sweet, I have already explained this many times, my mother does not like airplanes, flying scares her, and my father is busy, so I must go to Europa and bring my mother back. It is the only way, my love.”

“Hmm,” she replies, still teasing him from the bathroom of his bungalow.

“Ah, what are you doing in there? You have been in there for so long. I must hurry to the airport.”

“Here I am,” she giggles.

Standing in sheer, fine dark stockings, and nothing else. Hair dyed bright straw yellow. Pussy hair tufting over the top of the fishnet, a wet patch of pussy juice below already saturating, soaking the hosiery. Thick red lipstick blowing a kiss, thrusting her hips forward, holding them still – he can hear the barely audible sound of a mini vibrator.

Baptiste removes his travel pants in a flash.

“Can I taste it, can I taste your cock, just one, last time… I want to taste it, for the last time,” acting breathless, “because maybe, maybe you will nevers come back?”

Her mouth opens wider, licking her lips, hovering over his hard cock, wrapping a hungry mouth around it. Tasting the knob, sucking, gliding down the shaft, moving her head back, surprising drops of zesty pre-cum wet the tip of her tongue, relishing the sweetness, sliding down again, accepting his explosion of young manly cum filling her mouth.

Sweating, Baptiste rolls his head, “Ah, sweet Shanty, I will be back.”

SOPHISTICATED

An older woman sits on a white leather sofa inside Club Ritzy, the islands cocktail zoo, cougars and other animals run classy and wild. On a floor of clouds, talking to her friend, “These white sofas are gorgeous,” rubbing it with a manicured and creamy hand, “everything else in here is made of glass or gold,” she exclaims, impressed by the luxury, “I had no idea that the island had such a unique, five-star venue,” her feet dangle in white fairy-floss air.

“I didn’t know either, thank you for inviting me,” her friend says.

Sipping on cocktails, both ladies dripping with tungsten bracelets, pearl necklaces, diamond rings, unicorn ivory clit rings and refinement.

Leaning closer to her friend, “It’s a shame that we won’t be able to get laid here. Look, all the gentlemen are over fifty, but they seem to prefer the young brown squirrel girls.”

Scanning the club, nodding in agreement, “There will be no free cocktails for us… we’ll just have to enjoy the music and the people-watching,” they smile, happy in their comfort, “oh well,” one lady says, “both of our vaginas are sore from being fucked hard by young Kata Cowboys,” they chuckle.

Clouds swirl on the floor in a club with its own weather.

“Why aren’t you talking to those beautiful old women on the sofas over there,” Shanty asks a man, light bouncing from the enchanting emerald stone on his hairy finger, “they look so rich!”

“I am here to live out my fantasy, with a young squirrel,” the bear replies, raising his glass to toast Shanty’s cocktail. Glasses clink, smiles shared, “I have been with rich ladies before,” he continues, “now it is, well, it is my time to enjoy something different,” his elegance velvet.

Light bouncing from the stone on his hairy finger has captivated Shanty, “Is that a wedding ring,” she asks.

“Yes, it is. I was married when I was young – to a strong woman, so our dalliance, this must be our secret,” his expensive, tailored clothes, angelic wealth mixing with the cloud-floor and the golden bar lined with nude barmen and giggling girls.

“No, noooo, sorry. I have a boyfriend. I must behaves and be a good girl for him, he will return to the island in a few days,” Shanty sips her cocktail, “I promised my boyfriend that I would stay home until he returns – but it was borings at home, so I came to this – sophisticate club,” she meows, “none of my friends come here, it is eksclusif,” meowing louder.

“Dearest Shanty, only our thoughts exist. Solipsism is my mantra, my philosophy – only our thoughts exist. We can be inside bliss together, a cornucopia, a phantasmagoria, a pleasure dome,” he says, waiting for her reply.

“What?”

“Ahhhh,” he smiles, a deep growl from within, “would you like another cocktail?”

Another complex concoction slides down her throat, unrelenting and sophisticated seduction fills her ears. Another cocktail. Another song. More cocktails, and another, and another, a blur bending her mind. Floor clouds rising and seeping through her skin, flooding her brain.

“Will you join me for a special drink in my opera villa,” he asks her.

“No… sorry, I can’t,” clouds swirl around her feet, up her legs, dusting her knickers, “it is impossible.”

“I will pay you four hundred Amerikan dollars.”

The horse and cart gallop them away from the club as fast as possible, up the winding hill to his opera villa – Shanty’s eyes full of cocktail juice and clouds sloshing around in eyeballs.

“Huuuu wahhh… oh, saya mabuk,” her head lays on his chest.

“Behold,” he smiles, “we are here.”

Shanty raises her head slowly – an enormous complex fills her view. Expensive, opera-house style white roofs pointing high and out towards the ocean, daring its vastness to challenge this man’s wealth, and the ring on his finger.

“Huuu wahhhh,” she whispers.

Unlocking the massive oak door, swinging it open, she runs straight in, across the marble floor shedding her clothes, out to the ocean-view balcony. Standing nude, arching her back, hair twirling above the spectacular infinity glass, “I want a juice-Arak, with a lime wedge,” she demands, turning in wonder at the ocean waves slapping against sand below the transparent floor.

“Yes, of course,” he replies, “please, wait one minute.”

Walking naked towards the balcony, his erect cock a metronome swinging left, swinging right. Left. Right. Left. Right. Hairy cock harder and harder – swinging left and right in time with his long steps and mystical music. Standing proud on the balcony, passing the Arak to Shanty, she takes out the wedge of lime, tips the Arak down her throat, discarding the goblet. Holding his hard dick, pulling him to the edge of the balcony, his cock points over the glass railing, erect in the breeze. Squeezing the wedge of lime, dripping the juice along the length of his bear cock – drip drip drip, juice splashing down from the citrus wedge in bright sunshine. Drenched in lime, she pulls his erection harder and harder, harder – he spasms, hairy balls pressed up against the glass railing, cock pointing high over the glass edge, pulsing cum squirts an arc flying through the air, shooting out, along, then down. A massive load of cum splashing into the tumultuous ocean waves below.

Shanty’s head, as large as the sky, hair flying, twirling in the wind, “My time… my time will last forever.”

Leading her to his king-size bed, Cake Pop strengthening their blood – he fucks her pussy, an orgasm, fuck her ass, an orgasm, fuck her mouth, an orgasm – the cycle, pussy to ass, mouth to pussy, ass to mouth and again and again. Laying together, she pushes his large mat of chest hair down with both of her hands – the hair exciting and fatherly, a soft blanket, sucking on his chest hair as she slowly falls asleep, cum dripping from all over her body. Opera music vibrates, heat tingles the baking villa throughout their slumber.

Light bouncing from the enchanting emerald stone on his hairy finger, eventually he wakes, to find his bed, and his wallet, empty.

THRILLED MOTHER

Exhilarated propellers push the Stratocruiser through the sky towards the island – Baptiste and his mother sit inside of pure joy. The silver skin of the plane fades away, wings dissolve into a hot blue peace, cockpit pilots flicker away. The floor clouds into nothingness. The passengers sitting on their chairs, shimmer into the skylight.

Only two seats remain – flying through air together.

“My son,” Baptiste’s mother says, “I am so happy that you have found this girl, this Shanty, this treasure, I am thrilled,” relaxing into her sky-chair.

“Thank you, mother, thank you,” holding her hand, enjoying the fresh wind on his face.

The nose of the reconstituted Stratocruiser dips into perfect blue. 

DEAR DIARY

Safe on the island, Baptiste scribbles some words. 

‘Finally, I have a few moments alone in my bungalow.

Shanty is meeting my parents soon! The thrill – it has been making me burst for weeks, no, months, even longer. Every wave I’ve surfed on the ocean, every time I hit that peak, I dreamt and thought of her eyes and her tone, her laugh, those perfect teeth, those breasts, that happiness I feel inside of her embrace.

The introduction dinner with my parents, it will be the most perfect moment of my life. My mother and father will be so proud that I have found such an angel, and an angel so true.

At dinner, I will ask her to marry me.’

SALON

Sitting on an old Barber’s chair, a red leather throne in the middle of a floor made of pebbles shaded by a roof of palm fronds, the islander salon staff fuss over Shanty. A pedicure, a manicure, hours spent on her hair to make it curly, deliciously dynamic – chocolate locks hanging, wrapping her shoulders bouncing on her breasts.

Baptiste arrives with shopping bags – the islander girls giggle and unpack the items, “Oooohhh, ahhhh,” they exclaim while jewellery slides onto Shanty’s fingers, her wrists, her neck, silver, gold, jade, and a stunning silk dress. Shining, exploding brilliance, fireworks of youth shooting high into the sky.

ANOTHER PHONE CALL

The young child seems happy.

Playing in deep shade, little legs pushing the play-horse – cheap plastic wheels scraping on hard cement in a small, dismal, dark backyard. Toys scattered about, damp moss covering cement walls that never receive my sunshine.

Sitting, watching her child play, lamenting how fat she has become, Shanty, permanently depressed, holding an old, borrowed mobile phone made out of corn close to her ear.

“Hello,” a man’s voice says.

“It’s me. Shanty,” her bottom lip hangs.

Silent for many seconds, “Well well,” he replies, “you again. An ex-girlfriend. One that I thought I’d never hear from again. It’s been? What? Ten years since I heard from you?”

“Yes. I suppose. About that,” the unhappiness in her voice, unmistakable.

“Are you okay?”

“No, not reallys.”

“Where are you,” he asks, “still on the island? I never see you there – or hear anything about you, and I go there often.”

She takes an enormous breath, “I ruined my life,” taking a moment, “I’m not on the island… I’ve been living on the konservatif island. I’ve been here for years-years,” looking up to check on her child, looking down again at the cold floor, “I’m only livings, to try and be a good mother,” she aches, “I live in my husband’s house. No, his mother’s house. A terrible house.”

“Who did you marry?”

“Oh,” Shanty says, “just a man that I met here, an alcoholic… When we mets and I got pregnant to him, I was still in a dazing from too much alkohol,” she sighs, “it all happening so fast,” she tries to shoo flies away from her crotch, “I lost my Francis man, so very long times ago,” the flies won’t go away, “I have a broken heart, it doesn’t seem to ever, evers recover.”

“You lost him, how badly,” he asks.

“Bad-bad,” she whimpers, “Baptiste is never allowed to return to the island, never. A lot of dollars were paid, and my Baptiste, my doll, he was sent back to Francis forevers.”

“Shit… I am so

“I was stupid…” she interrupts wiping away tears, “I did wrong things, to many, many people.”

“Shanty… ummm, are you calling me,” his voice softer, “to apologize for the money you stole from me?”

“No, why would I care about that?”

“Ok… okayyy then,” he sighs, “of course you don’t care.” Silence hangs in cool air, followed by ruffling sounds, a pencil scribbling on paper. “Shanty, my old, friend,” he continues, “it seems that you need to talk, so please, please share your story with me.”

 She nods with a sad face, much older than her real age.

SOJOURNER

Shining, exploding brilliance, fireworks of youth shooting high into the sky, “You are ready, my sweet, you are perfection, it’s time to meet my parents,” says Baptiste.

The islander salon staff nod in awe, “Yes, yaa, yess,” they say, satisfied with their efforts.

“A real princess,” the youngest salon-staff girl gasps, “cantik, cantik,” squealing delight.

Baptiste holds Shanty’s hand with gentlemanly ease, leading her outside to a waiting horse and cart. The islander driver nods and smiles in appreciation of how well dressed the young couple are – her white silk dress, his perfectly pressed brown suit with a white tie creating royalty. Neither needs to say a word, they have discussed every detail of their dreams together a thousand times. The large white stallion clip-clops away, my heat and my sunshine low on the horizon, pushing comfort to their backs. Clip clop and clip clop towards their dreams.

Time passes quickly.

Tilting her head to the left, “Huuuu wahhh,” Shanty says, squinting her eyes, looking at the white tips of a villa starting to appear, “Huuuu wahhh,” her head tilting to the right, happiness blinding most of her thoughts.

The stallion stops – their cart has arrived at the door.

Stepping out of the carriage, a small box in his pocket feeling extraordinarily heavy, Baptiste offers Shanty his hand. She takes his hand, delicately stepping out of the carriage.

Walking together, hand in hand, to the door.

Knock, knock, knock.

A wide, heavy door swings open. Baptistes mother and father appear, standing with sunshine smiles, a king and a queen, the aromas of a banquet inside the villa flowing past them, seeping into everyone’s nose.

Looking at Shanty, recognition spreads across the father’s face, “HER! NO! NOT HER!”

Baptistes mother turns to glare at her husband, “WHAT? HOW DO YOU KNOW HER?” she screams.

A reflex action, the father raises a flat palm held high. His eyes flicking rapidly between three faces – his son, his wife, and Shanty, unsure of which one to slap first, light bouncing from the enchanting emerald stone on his hairy finger.

The End.

To be continued with,

‘Moon Won’t Set,’

and concluded with,

‘Jupiter Won’t Set’