“(I’m the) DJ of my own films.”
|Woman in Wig: Trials by Night
Fortune ought to favour her, orchestrates the great divide through choked streets. This labyrinthine city suits her fierce needs. She wears no facade. Only a dirt-brown raincoat and a rotten-lemon wig. Sunglasses to hide her dismay at men eager to please and preen. She uses them to smuggle drugs and they use her to unburden their destiny. Her boyfriend takes on yet another plaything. His bar a womb he tunnels in to hide. She just wants a break from the night. But the quest calls for another killing. This betrayal has a name and her gun is ready to sing.
|He Qiwu: Blooming in Hollow Spaces
His words melt her disdain. Unveils a heart held tight and constrained. She would hate this trespass. A study of her in slumberous silence. Blonde wig that does not do her justice. Last call was an invitation to heartbreak. This girl can demand all his adoration. He could reach for forty winks himself. Ravenous, he orders food for two. Gorges himself while the TV buzzes electric. The night wonders about second chances and rain-washed memories, in a hotel room of possibilities laid to rest. Pretty girls like pretty feet. So he scrubs her shoes clean. Leaves a memory sparkling white.
|Cop 663: Ruminations in the Familiar
He showers, eats, sleeps. Works as a cop watching the city streets. Home is forlorn; lost in memories of sensuous kisses, interlocked limbs that glistened in sweat. You know how it is, he reminds the soap. It whimpers and withers, hungry for a soft caress. You must seek the sun, he advises the towel. Places it in the light of respite. The plush animals he cannot console. No reassurances cure their longing for slender arms. Home would rejoice at her arrival. Nooks and corners would burst into a melody of colours and splash the walls. Now, there’s only dusty silence.
|Faye: Flittering Benevolence
The care and feeding of a home in despair is a multitude of wonder. She enters with caution, when the owner partakes in roles elsewhere. Studies the contents within listless walls – forgotten photographs, weatherworn slippers, shelves of clothes from yesteryear. There, she replaces and replenishes. The stereo sings for her, the tank sparkles with fish, plants rise to gaze at her rhythm. The sullen bed requires an exorcism from the past. There will be an end to this fascination with him. Earthly spaces will be replaced by the blue expanse. On planes, she’ll soar. Among ribbons of clouds. Still dancing.
M. S. writes flash fiction and poetry. Her work has been published in various online literary journals and magazines. You can find her latest at Rejection Letters.