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She lay her sleep-tousled hair on his weary shoulder. Murmuring softly, her lips caressed the words “You’re a great, friend you know that? I can’t articulate how much I appreciate you.” His sad smile couldn’t avoid marring his tone. “Is that a loaded comment?” She didn’t seem to need to consider this, but then her thoughts had always run close to the surface. “Loaded with blanks, perhaps.” The zestiness of her shampoo teased his subconscious, but he resisted the impulse to bury his nose in her silky curls. “Inconsequential in itself, but significant enough to be in existence.” He closed his eyes, spoke resignedly. “Then I guess you’ve emptied my arsenal.”

Posted By Jacklin On 06.05.2012 @ 6:45 am

It’s plain to see, printed in black and white Watermarks, and Harvard referencing, and footnotes bursting with a statisticians haven I’ll use prestigious paper, because that makes it fact. Right? My finger hovers musingly over the oblong backspace key Threatening to erase even the graphemes of solipsism Because perhaps even the most reductionist fact can be made redundant. Wrong?

Posted By Jacklin On 05.18.2012 @ 9:24 am

“Love Languages; the vehicles by which we express and understand affection”. The green-eyed girl read clearly and expressively from the book she was holding, ignoring the obvious apathy of the olive-skinned man sat opposite her. “Time, Touch, Gifts, Acts of Service, Words.” Decisively, she placed the book face-down, spine straining as the pages lay splayed apart, holding the page ready in a way which alerted Thomas to his fiancee’s determination to complete this convoluted exercise. “Women!” he thought. “It’s never enough to just love them; now I have to analyse and scrutinize the way I love.” Thomas’ annoyance was temporarily abated by Katy’s clear utterance of a seemingly unrelated word. “Primitive.” She grinned at his momentary confusion. “Funny, isn’t it, how they’re all really primitive human behaviors? To communicate, to touch, to do things for one another. To spend time together, to give. Love in the age of cavemen.”

Posted By Jacklin On 05.11.2012 @ 2:27 am

She was the painting- vibrant, bold, inviting attention. He was the picture frame- solid, dependable, unnoticeable. Her every movement seemed to epitomize vitality and youthfulness, flitting through people’s lives in a whirlwind of indelible zestiness. His measured words and actions were imprinted carefully and deliberately into the floorboards of life. Her eyes- carefree and daring- glittered with an unquenchable lust for freedom. His eyes observed; looked on; considered. Unaware, she defied the notion of outgoing, the iridescence of her laughter drawing people in; swarms of varying greys and browns as the moths blindly gathered around her flame. He thought in multi-dimension, saw the light from a different perspective. She was the painting- vibrant, bold, inviting attention. He was the picture frame- solid, dependable, unnoticeable.

The world needs more picture frames.

Posted By Jacklin On 05.10.2012 @ 3:19 am

Her words tasted stagnant, despairingly common. Once- perhaps- they had been fresh and zesty; lemons and limes in a cacophony of originality. Now, one by one, segments, or syllables had dried out, left discarded in the aggravating puddle of apathy. Tasting the word play used to electrify the buds into blossom; today the words played a deadly game with her enamel. Maybe no words are better after all.

Posted By Jacklin On 05.07.2012 @ 12:17 pm

No-one likes the idea of separation. For some reason, it denotes something ugly; heart-wrenching; cruel. But Isn’t it beautiful, the way leaves separate from their tall, swaying anchors? Isn’t it exquisite, the way the unfathomable horizon-line separates omniscient sky from unrelenting sea? Itseasytooverlook,butthinkofwhatwouldbelost, without the simple, understated separation provided by a space-bar. I’m rather a fan of the feat of design which enabled my lips to separate, and articulate clusters of sounds, separated by… silence.

Posted By Jacklin On 05.02.2012 @ 8:26 am

If I can produce an alibi Waterproof to the hilt Could it ‘prove’ my innocence And eradicate my guilt?

Perhaps if no-one knows The extent of my mistakes They’ll vaporize into harmless tales: Eyes of arsenic and a head of snakes

It’s safe and fearless, hiding behind My make- up of perfection If I can conceal my faults effectively Could I escape the desert of rejection?

Posted By Jacklin On 04.30.2012 @ 10:04 am

Sweeping the room with unfathomable grey eyes, the tall, austere figure dominated the vacuous, pristine space, intensifying the atmosphere with her knowing silence. Her lips seemingly remained pursed, as, without so much as a glance at the monochrome- clad waiter, she emitted the words “a sliver, if you please”. Belly- deep, guttural laughter tsunami-ed from a far corner of the suddenly warmer drawing room. “Oh dearest Esther, don’t be so ridiculous. People who ask for slithers have no fun, you know”.

Posted By Jacklin On 04.29.2012 @ 6:36 am

Grey Suffocating, bland, anguished grey The colour of contempt; disdain Scorn

Once I thought I existed in a festival of exuberant colour Now I think I see myself Grey

Posted By Jacklin On 04.23.2012 @ 1:40 pm

You uttered those few words, And my ears prickled, hot and angry My fists clenched around that sentence Reeking with injustice

My already frayed nerves Explosively snapped Your audacity birthed the lightning from my eyes You rattled my temper.

Posted By Jacklin On 04.14.2012 @ 8:51 am

Water gushed into the bottle green can. Methodically, the bespectacled, hunched figure poured water over a battalion of plant pots, guarding the windowsill. Nourishing life- water splashed into the desolate brown soil, reviving the weary, withered shoots once more.

Posted By Jacklin On 04.13.2012 @ 5:22 am