The vessel- a short story by Daisy Willows
“Every day innocent lives are been taken by war and still there are so many countries where it is illegal to have an Abortion. This does not stop Abortions. It just increases poor health risks to women who then have to have Illegal Abortions. Where is social justice?” DAISY
‘Miss Sainte!’ the travel consultant’s hands twitch like bee feelers, ‘let me get your tickets for London.’ and she is off. I’ve always found it amusing how people assume that your life is more exciting than theirs. My life had taken on the acrid taste of bourbon. Hard decisions require liquor. There I was bobbing up and down like a buoy in a sea of bitterness. Disconnected from all sources of life. Waves of nausea threatened to bury me, deep, in an unrefined grave. This was my existence until I sobered up.
The hairs on my arms prick up like ears on stalks, straining to confirm what they’ve heard. Shivers rush down my spine. Impulsively my hand goes to feel the smooth outline of the documents in my handbag, confirming that the surgery will go ahead. I look up from the tropical brochure and nearly fall head first into a pair of dung coloured eyes. She’s that close. I quickly murmur my thanks and bolt out the door, the wind slamming the door for me
My life tends to go from one oblivious moment to the next. One ginger bastard is all it takes for the state of my jagged ignorance to be shattered. Now all I can see is my former ignorance smirking everywhere. All of a sudden its: Ginger beer, Ginger bread, Ginger cats, Ginger biscuits, Ginger nuts, Ginger pubes, Ginger! Ginger! Everywhere! I’ve reasoned that it’s not too avaricious to want more than ‘current-girlfriend’ status. Why would a heathen (his -word) such as myself, all tits hanging loose, wild hair and barefoot, want certainty and commitment? Why indeed?! Every time it’s the same watery twaddle:
‘I’m a married man… A Catholic!’ –with a bellyful of 24 hour bargain booze. It’s all driftwood. I’m Odyssey’s ‘Scylla ‘or ‘Charybdis’. If he wants to treat me as a necessary evil then instinctively I will lure him to my grotto and devour him. Men have this habit of changing anything they see as mystifying into the female form
Yesterday his spinal support kicked in and he decides to call me. It went something like this:
‘Babe, things are … complicated. I’m here for you.’ he said.
Then, that familiar feeling, the tightening jerk on my voice chords, taut like a gymnast’s rope. Panic. The struggle to gulp in air. My throat is blitzed with grainy, arid sand. The beat. The beat in my heart starts clanging cacophonously and belches up into my throat. My instincts are shrill. Screeching: Caution! Do Not Proceed. This is what his voice does to me.
‘Babe, we’ve been through so much?’ Smelly feet. All I can smell is pongy feet; His feet! I’d rather go collecting cacti with my teeth than screw you. Yerr screw you: That’s what I should have said.
‘I’m on my way.’ C’mon you don’t wanna be loved? So instead he gets his way and I’m running like an Olympic sprinter to get to my car.
There I am sitting in the car about to gear it up. Panic. With my palms I start slamming the steering wheel. You stupid bitch. SLAM! Greedy stupid bitch. SLAM! Blasted tears form. I look into the rear-view mirror and with a fingernail, I press down hard, scraping my cheek- only satisfied when I see the offensive, black line of soggy mascara tarnishing it .Ugly Bitch! I pound the rear view mirror-over and over.
I can feel the gamut of my emotions and thoughts losing form. So fragile. One knock. One tiny crack is all it takes. When he opens the door all the innards of my mind start to scramble.
‘Neck this’, he says. He plays his part well. He picks me up like I’m a delicate fawn and gently lowers me onto his sofa. He waves a bag of coke in front of my face. My fucking dopamine receptors are giving you a standing ovation, mate! Trust an ex-army cadet to bring out the Bolivian marching powder. Several hours later, we’re both wading deep in over consumption. Billie Holliday is playing, her voice becomes the beat in my heart.
‘Love. Love her voice… so raw … .so pure…but damaged like… Know what I mean?’
He just sits there, shakes his head mindlessly, not even one cobweb is disturbed. Great bulging eyes leer out at me. I might as well have a pair of fucking rabbit ears and a hat on with electrodes attached to my head. One eye hanging precariously out of its socket. It is torture what he does to me. I want to scream: Why do you look at my pain? Consider it. Consider me! And then decide this bitch needs sterilising?
He’s suddenly up and real close. His odour arrests my breath, it’s like taking in a whiff of a Parisian fish market at the end of a hot rough day. The hairs stand up on my body betraying my true feelings. Then he demands that I laugh.
‘Laugh. ‘He roars. Followed by frenzied laughter – Shit what’s he gonna do? He’s just laughing. Standing over me and laughing at me. Kick him in the gonads, quick! He stops. Breathe. He moves up close again, our faces touching.
‘Boo! He whispers, slapping his hands together with glee, he grabs my arse –roughly. I’m smiling. My mind serves itself from my body. It too plays its part well. He then begins to undo his jeans.
A bloated smiling face. The receptionist takes my documents. The ballooned smiling face points us in the direction of the waiting area.
‘Whoa! They must have known we were arriving, all the chairs were set up, ready for a blessed sermon. Wanna do the honours?’ What am I saying? I watch his fat turnip- shaped face go red. Blood red. He is simmering away like a stew but someone forgot to put the meat in. Jesus why the hell did I agree to this? The walls expand and shrink like I’m sucking on a plastic bag. Panic. I’m in Plato’s allegorical cave. His shadow torments me, I’m convinced that Mother Nature has given him rights over oxygen.
‘Hope Sainte?’ a nurse’s voice booms. Jumped up like a leap frog. Crap joke but I got spooked. The nurse looks up at me, she raises her eyebrows which make her glasses slant downwards. He heaves his body upwards. I feel his skulking bristling my nerves. The Nurse ushers me into a cubicle.
‘Change into this then hop on a bed’ she gestures to a bed. I touch the blue gown and put my fingers to my nose. Tainted, I gag. How can I put it? It’s like I’m inhaling water. Panic has dropped her anchor.
Lying horizontally I turn my head to the left and I look up into a pair of nostrils. It’s the Surgeon. His lips are moving like that singing bass fish that was all the rage in the nineties. I can’t hear jack shit- the porter wheels me into the theatre.
I open my eyes. I exhale, the cubicle expands. He enters, drops his head. Doesn’t even bother to look at me. He stands in a corner and folds his arms. He just stands in that corner reminding me of a scarecrow. All stiff and glacial. Hours slither by, the silence hissing mercilessly. A hug. I want a hug. The silence is pierced. It’s me. I’m screaming. Little critters are scratching away at my insides. The attack is stabbing and sharp. The pain throbs with intent. Panic.
‘What the hell is happening?’ I look over and he’s fiddling with his fucking phone like he’s re-arranging his balls. Strap on cock-face! He turns around to face me. Did I say that out loud? He looks demonic enough.
‘Erm… well derr!’ He slaps my forehead, ‘you’re giving birth to our baby! Look at the state of ya!’ I follow his eyes. They settle on my well-formed bump.
‘You stupid murdering bitch!’ He then spits in my face and turns to leave.
‘Hey, where’re you going- we agreed on this?’ Panic. There’s more screaming.
‘Why? Why? Why?’ Each “why” grows in expectation and volume. Sobbing, through my tears I can just about make out a figure of the porter. Everything starts to slow down. No. Retardation is setting in, slowing me down. Panic. The surgeon appears again. It’s like I’m in a macabre pantomime
‘Now, please, count backward from ten, please.’ he smiles down at me.
‘I can hear you!’ I dribble out. The surgeon smiles and nods his head like one of those Chinese paw-waving cats.
What is this ban on abortion—it is a survival of the veiled face, of the barred window and the locked door, burning, branding, mutilation, stoning, of all the grip of ownership and superstition come down on woman, thousands of years ago.”
“Against abortion? Don’t have one.”
“Every day innocent lives are been taken by war and still there are so many countries where it is illegal to have an Abortion. This does not stop Abortions. It just increases poor health risks to women who then have to have Illegal Abortions. Where is the social justice?” DAISY
All Magic comes with a price.
ALL MAGIC COMES WITH A PRICE
Not all men can handle a strong woman.
A lot of them tend to make us feel like we are weak,wrong , crazy even with our impulse to rule and to be dominated.
They would happily send us to a place to be Abominated.
Not all men can dominate a strong woman
It takes a real man – with a front and backbone – one that he uses .
One that he knows how to use and simply won’t take her refusals.
A firm hand – pressed against her delicate neck bone – windpipe-disarmed . A Struggle to breathe.
Shock – Fight or flee.
Stay and put up with it – two stubborn souls connect – who is going to win?
She could fight you, she will put up a good bluff .
Poker face. Stoke his fury – Flush her out – until she is red in the face .
Hair fanned out in a perfect pose,astrologically aligned with her sin.
She knows when to stop him. She pushes back his arm.
Will he get the message or will he continue with the power trip and go one and on ?
The moment of truth is in his bare hands.
Her life, her breath is his – she is at his wildest demands.
He won’t take no for an answer – she won’t refuse his frustration.
She would rather end up black and blue
Thumbed, printed ,read all over- front to back.
than pass on her pain,
Her 6 red eyed ,three-headed Cerberus demon.
Dizzy disparate desperation.
She won’t see that reflection – not one drop will trickle from her eye; the mirror that she sees is, in fact, her depiction.
She is his keeper – She owes him his salvation.
Till death do us part.
Charon take your ferry – set back sail on the river Styx . She casts the ferryman back to eternal damnation.
Lust , love , it’s all a part of the combined heady scent and the sweat .
gender – Sexual Agenda – together, forever in each others debt.
A pounding heart. She suddenly gasps.
Does she fight for one last caress?
Love is complicated. So is she.
He is her man.
Her king and she will let him be.
Euphoria – her hands tremble – she is shaking.
Pins and needles – no voodoo.
True Magic is two people madly in love.
two hearts – hers stopped beating so he took out his own – ripped it from his chest – tore it in half and gave her one part.
She doesn’t need a rib.
She needs a beat – a rhythm.
A Civil rights movement protest.
bloody driven from her comfort- safety zone.
This time, when she makes a noise it won’t be a solemn, repressed moan.
Jolted into believing.
Stained sheets. She is done with teasing.
She is the Queen of his heart.
Same time tomorrow – so they can resume their riske business meeting.
end of Nervosa beginning
She conceives words as they follow. Military soldiers conform to order.
Dissident few stutter in a withheld, race identity, chalk circle.
Her brain won’t allow her to move on.
Lamenting for a trusted source.
Collapses onto hot tarmac.
Too tired to alter.
Melt her heart.
Resuscitate the breathe that gives her corpse a reason to impart
For a creative outlet,
Her own personal work of art.
Hands raking through her hair. Grip at the sides, pulls out a chunk,
She’s dating an alopecia hunk.
This funk makes junk.
Eyeball sockets sunk.
It would be better if she didn’t care if the words weren’t her own.
It wouldn’t matter if the characters didn’t continue to harass her.
Calling for their story to be heard.
Multiple attempts. She can’t cut out cardboard citizens.
Maybe in an empty space, yes.
Verbatim theatre could work.
She submits to an elusive entity.
Virtual paper work-enough to bag a colostomy.
Not been on here much.
The guilt makes her turn her head away.
She gets it,
She needs to reciprocate.
Sincerest apologies for not being present.
She’s surfing the web.
Googling data analysis and Lady bosses fine tuning their hold on her own grip.
She prefers to lie down on green pastures than make love, on a bed of green bills any day!
Unfortunately, life says she has to pay in paper too to make some headway.
It’s all right. It will pass.
Shivering from the inside. Lack of carbon dioxide.
Waiting for the critic to report how much recovery time she needs before Muse Goddess ups and leaves.
It’s the look of a person. Shrivelled into crass.
Thought-rhyming is a pain in her ass.
She’s laying it down in quick dry cement.
she knows we all want to be that portrait
She’s a portrait too.
Has her needs
Open your eyes-reach out to touch her.
These layers of skin hide organs, bones ,
And a heart so tense-all it can do is wheeze.
“This is me. I can’t deny it.”
We all have a life.
Hers has become a familiar rendezvous with Alien Jackson sporting a mullet.
What does it matter if characters are Black, White or Hispanic?
Social realism settling on common ground upon its release.
Not for an escapist’s palate.
What is the state of theatrical politics, on the horizon, beyond that place we call-
Not even two Bonds can be saved.
Pearl earrings engraved.
Her gums are in recession.
Blame the bank and the Tories.
Her feminist views will place blame on those next in succession.
One larger – hangs limply from her chest.
Commit a mastectomy on her femininity
Humans fight terminal illness, homelessness…
How dare she think her position is dire.
Disbelief that her renegade words follow in a Capitalist order.
She falls onto her knees,
Thanks Ashanti for her daughters.
Time to shove a half pill down some pussies throat.
Its nasty ,
Doubts whether deep throat works
She’s trying to stay afloat.
Her illness-the chronic versus the opposite divide
It’s her personal narrative that finds her margined between this blank space on each side.
Calm and serene.
A mother is reborn.
Lost for 3 days — late – couldn’t rise,
Her mind was indeed full of scorn.
Today, she waits,
Wrings out her anxieties.
Maybe new teeth will win her virtual friends.
Give her more appraising likes
Maybe, they will finally see that she is real,
rearranging her mask-unsure of what reflects back at her multiple ‘Me’s’
Her reflection is divided into pieces.
Can’t fathom out that there is a whole entire being to examine
Jigsaw puzzle unresolved ,
yet again crippled to her knees.
Fervent sweeping up of shattered glass.
For a figment of a second she saw an outline
Stories march in protest – for plot out lines, dramatic structure, scenes, reveal characters in lace
Just enough exposure to show.
Three more weeks, one year down-more time for unadulterated fun.
If you don’t hear from her,
Now she weeps every night into a whisky soaked bun.
It’s a metaphor.
Let go and melt the sun.
Cool down its temper. Versailles gardens make her think of France cut into a jambon quarter.
Carry on till the end.
All the books say she ought to.
Humming a song
Doing her thing.
A mere whiff of failure invokes convulsions from within.
‘Write for myself ‘
Truth , integrity and courage is the only way she will let herself be heard.
If you can’t accept her-carry on peeking over at her life, not mentioning if cuckoo finally flew.
One day, you won’t be able to tighten the Ids screw.
*Inspired by a kish kash, Mish mash of nerve endings and beginnings
These are my words
She’s must be a fraud. Disconnected to this world
a caricature of a human.
An imposter civilian of society – a living entity to her dismay incapacited to disappear
always chased back in this race -the rush
It’s marathon pace she detests
The First in line to devour the despo’s discarded crusts.
Her washed out hat mirrors
Her bottom lip
Scrutinizing the clouds wafting by.
Human puppets strung up
A reason to carry on the charade?
Compelled by the hypnotic pull pulsating with a love song serenading the humanity of heart.
Women of Ukraine
*8th March women’s international day 2022*
Under a senseless war you are not as noticed as your insight ..
Know that female propaganda protestation is a liberation .Maternal is a revolution
Starting with faith not doubt .
Radical against the martial law
reveal your beliefs with the strength of your education
Never forget you have a duty to stand up .
Voice your opinions.. you are part of your nation.
Even when the patriarchy has you under a thumb.
It’s a parody
employed mercenaries to pluck his monoborw.
Inhabit a cold continent to suit his Napoleon Bonaparte with fashionless gout.
He’s tied up , suited & booted mannerisms to strangle the patriots to go without..
A Siberian exile
An excuse to out those who’ve already come out.
No shame , my women …
Evil will lose this small man’s willy , I believe without a doubt 😏.
International women’s day
Russia we stand as our tribe .
We will win with every gender with clout.
No one knew of the flying woman
No one knew if she would fall
No one knew she hovered above
Watching those who stumbled on the cobbles after painting the town red hoping for a bloody breast to fill their stomache one night more.
Free range chickens -motherless
Hoping that no proud rooster would make an early morning call
For one night peace could be theirs thanks to the flying woman they found spread out
Life is mostly forlorn.
Infamous conquest of the human race to expose life’s epiphany.
de harmonisation fails to uphold Athena’s liturgy.
Poorly managed Pomodoro method
Metis grant Deep Thought access to the mind of the thunderstruck.
Search engine optimised – the ultimate article 42 disinhibits a libertarian’s reclaimed autonomy to debate life’s purpose for freedom.
hypophysectomise the moody matriarchy with
Pheromonal replacement therapy
Single seeded sire declares she made it up -it’s all in her head
Shamed for her bloody lunar cycle – men stand Erectus repulsed yet horny
cautioned to never mirror the gorgon with serpent hair
live a life barren or
Welcome the stones for a martyr’s death.
(I’m seriously stuck with this one writer’s block & in writer’s self-doubt in full force. It needs a lot of work. )
Her bloody stalker
The red army draws collective breath whistles it out in a howling gust of wind snarling.
She stands tall – her long tresses raised to the heavens
A subtle message from Hell’s dwellers: it was back to attack.
Every month, they stalk her just as night follows day, full-mooned. Hairy palms, yellow slit eyes – she would rather die of an internal haemorrhage than be demeaned.
They see the blood trickling down her legs.
Draw in closer – metallic scented pack.
Pro-choice in an era where science can make the dead come to life – yet still she must bleed whether she carries life inside her or expels the botanist’s seed.
Condemn her to a life in pro. Micheal Jordan had space jam. A notorious – well-received flow. She blushes every time her breasts swells – nature twists in a smile. Nipples points straight at the mouths of the hungry -ready for their feed.
To be Anonymous in a WikiLeaks world. Memes, social media information convulsing out statements of change:
Did you know?
Think about how brainwashed – your mind is!
She knows she still rolls in her own shit.
Unfit for a carry one movie with Benny hill and the league of justice.
Dead pool eyes.
She knows this world is too abrasive
Her skin smooth
Her passion unhinged
One straight jacket away from having the whole collection of brand unfit.
‘It’s a happening, baby ‘-throwback to Allan Kaprow.
Everyone is crazy. Everyone has issues.
Everyone stand and link arms at the toll bridge
show solidarity for your fallen foes.
The ones who fell 20 feet from the building or overdosed on legal high drugs brought from some hoodie called Jack Wills.
How to be seen and have her privacy in a cyberbully surveillance world?
Throwdown your sticks allow overgrowth to infect the anti-stigma hedges trimmed neatly in a row.
She screams out in shrill
Ears sharp enough to raise the dead.
How is it possible no one sees or hears of her ills.
Despicable matters in the eyes of the living dead.
An out or an in.
A place that stirs broth from her blood flow waits until her insulin levels drop to an all-time grave
Sugar-coated words nauseate her.
Her duty to be human and keep her heart on the ticker – inside she knows the hurricane won’t stop swaying the palm trees until she is torn from her roots
Mr Big has an acute perspective unable to see she is drowning with every weapon she draws.
It doesn’t take a hostage negotiation expert to know that eventually, even the savviest terrorist can be worn down to drop its ammunition.
Stockholm! Place of the cordial juiced up paedophiles.
Intensive herbal essence conditioning treatment is their only hope of showing her how to be free.
A Jesus embellished slice of toast to honour her first Butter valley communion.
She thinks she is free.
She knows it’s part of her syndrome.
Her mind is her prison. She has the padlock and the pin number.
She sits up to 24 hours a day punching in the password, unlocking the clunk of metal chains – on a loop.
An exercise in futile persistence.
The ending is found in her very beginnings born out of blood, stained, crying
Pulled out with forceps the white coats defined her form from the moment they beat her into breathy life.
Smiling jokester with broad shoulders fighting all corners of the globe
Her last breath will be when she lets go-
In her state of cocoon expose her true misery to the world – look at her in her strife
Don’t worry, folks
Blood will flow.
You will get your show.
Just know that she put up one hell of a fight
In order to finally see her vision of light.
Out on a whim
Do or die –
live fast , party hard –
be an honorific rebel.
Shake me up,
Colour me bold!
Don’t wind me down – use a font that sounds like Bevel.
13 responses to “Out on a whim”
Love this! Great writing x
Hi Asahela! Thank you so much for taking the time to read this. Take care 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
This is brilliantly written, bloody fantastic X *hugs daisy* I miss you lots xx
T Y my friend. Miss you loads too xxxx
LikeLiked by 1 person
Love this… I’m going to remember whigmaleerie 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
Glad you approve xx
LikeLiked by 1 person
Wat a beautiful thing to write.
Love to u
LikeLiked by 1 person
Ah T Y my sweet ❤ ❤
Great write. Life is too be lived hard. I have always believed in the work hard, play hard.
Life is too short to live it any other way.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you! Yes working hard justifies playing hard 😉
Breathtaking…..on a whugmaleerie……!!!!! Wow! Deserving of an honorific accolade…. 😉 Hugs! ❤
LikeLiked by 1 person
T Y xxxx ha ha! cheeky 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
Hugs! 😉 ❤
LikeLiked by 1 person