Category: creative writng

Exchange of warmth. . .

Part one. Short story extract. . . to be continued

Laura Wandsworth took a deep breath. She had been expecting them, the police that is. She had been caught shop lifting. K-Y warming lubricant jelly, of all  things, Laura, chuckled to herself. She should have known really, she had looked so out of place there in the Ann Summers shop. She hadn’t gone out planning on stealing anything. She hadn’t really needed anything, the freezer was full from the week before when she had visited Iceland. But she had been so cold walking around the town. Her fingers felt immobile beneath her gloves, and she was unable to feel her toes beneath the two layers of thermal socks. She had figured out a few years back the best shops for warmth were those that had changing rooms, the skimpier the outfit’s the warmer the heaters. Laura rarely visited Ann Summers, always feeling a little prudish. The heater was at the far end of the shop, tucked inside an alcove where they kept the adult movies. As always Laura did her best to fit in. She picked up items turned them over and pretended to be interested. She had felt the blood rush to her cheeks as quickly replaced the dvd back onto the shelves. Laura innocently picked up the lubricant drawn in by words warming. When she realised the effect it might have she had slowly dropped it into her pocket. The security guard waited by the doors for her. A tall man with a shaved head. Laura had never been caught stealing before, even though most days she went out with that very intent.

Advertisements

Seemingly bottomless.

Art Work of Alice in Wonderland <3 <3

Perhaps the fall is
like Alice’s hole,
seemingly bottomless,
lined with trinklets,
jars of memories, speckled
stars of hope,
freckled fragments of
love.
And storms, of course storms.
Hazardous hailstorms of despair raining down upon
Queen of tarts,
of hearts,
of tarts and hearts
and perhaps the
odd King hiding in the
recesses of time.
Maybe, falling in love is
like the mad Hatters tea party, chipped china,
pretty pastels,
cucumber sandwiches,
forever there, forever gone,
always coming and
never wrong.
For, there is always time for tea, always a tomorrow,
another cup,
good and bad,
It’s a given,
a promise of a brighter
day, a loving embrace within
the sweet liquid nectar.
And yes, there will be
mouldy bread, curdled milk,
Flies of destruction.
There will be sugar
thieves and odd concoctions,
but there will always be
tomorrow,
another tea party.
Yes, perhaps falling
in love is just like
falling into
Alice’s world.

Karen Hayward (c) 2017
Image found on pinterest

Crimson Blush.

karenart

Your essence lays deep within my core,
my mind unquenched it begs me for more,
My spirit, chaotic has never felt so sure,
Of all our choices, I’m thinking all fours.

My skin searches always your touch
cheeks yearning for your crimson blush
An intense need that roams without rush,
A slave to desire and the erotic rush.

My eyes wander other realms to need,
to ponder the evolution of master’s feed,
to secure the taste essence of seed,
To taste liberation to be free.

I find you again at the core of my mind,
dark evolution, my wrists you do bind,
Kisses so soft, touch. . .of a kind,
this here lust that does burn,
Is yours and is mine.
It is yours and it is mine.
The whispers of need as
two souls entwine.

Karen Hayward (c) 2017

Words and image.

“in love’s opiate embrace” 

IMG_20170413_110950

Surround me, drown me, engulf me

the essence of your desire has long

become the beating drum of my crimson

blood. Silence now has a curved edge,

warm and delicious it licks across my skin

my palette accustomed to your

embrace, opiate love, in a storm

of ferocious passion, I hear the poison

as it lulls through the shadowed

maze of my mind, and I am lost to

it’s intrinsic beat, a harmony

of ancient touch caressing my soul. Look

here at the constellation of your kisses

as they trail my skin, for all that you are

I hang on the dependency of my need.

I hang upon the dependency of our love

dark and relentless it is the beacon

of my spirit.

Karen Hayward ©2017

Image and words.

#poetslineprompts

lineprompopiate

A whisper on golden rays.

img_20170120_082918

Yonder ethereal skies your essence

sweeps across my soul embracing

my darkest shadows with tender

kisses of devotion. And I am defenseless,

the ancient echo of love sung by the morning

bird tingles across frozen drops of dew.

Spiraled imprint of frost delicately

painted across whimsical dreams thawing

at the warmth of your tongue,

the caress of your lips,

the embrace of your love that

traverses

countless seconds dispersing the atoms

of our existence.

Breaking times barrier,

colliding with celestial storms

reaching now from beyond the realm,

a single flame we burn in the echos

of our infinite universe an eternal

love the expansion of our souls united in

a chaotic flurry of brilliance.

Karen Hayward * ©2017

Image and words.

Soldier of ancient knowing.

mikewildyelginger1

My soul is the creation of a million broken pieces,

decoupaged together with vintage paper towels

covering cracks, slithers of white glue barely filling

the crevices of histories voice echoing through the

lost caves of innocence.

Smashed China, pastel floral’s

lost in the vivid hues of self destruction…I wear my scars

with the whispered honor of shame, the rivets caused

by the dull blades have become storage boxes of rational

thought, irrationally taped together in tears that fall only as

darkness reigns…Even I must stay relatively sane.

And deep within this constellation of thoughts I search

the battle ground for your essence. Praying I will find you

safely jumping across the stepping stones of

my existence, but alas my horizon is clear and yet

I feel you so near. A soldier of love I find you

peeling back torn memories, embracing the deep

etches of self doubt and kissing away the deep echos of

darkness that shroud me from light. My honored Knight

taking arms against this lifelong fight.

My soul…

is the creation of a million broken pieces,

decoupaged together with your love and vintage paper towels

covering cracks, slithers of white glue and your gentle insistent

whispers of encouragement  filling the crevices of histories

voice echoing through the lost caves of my innocence.

Karen Hayward ©2017

Image Michael J.Garland. ©2017