Poor fortunate soul

‘Poor fortunate soul,’ he said, walking on without turning. He was tall, simply dressed in a black dress shirt, new black jeans and cowboy boots. He smelled of leather. It was an odd way to say it. I was intrigued.

I wanted to follow him, but that wasn’t my job. I could sense something in him, like, yes, he was a bible-basher, possibly even clergy. I could have read his mind if I cared to. There wouldn’t be anything in it of use. His was a simple mind, benign but filled with dogma. He pitied me because I smelled like the street. It had been three weeks since my last shower, and two since I had slept on a bed.

My wings were a little worse for wear, but he couldn’t see them. I was just someone to be pitied, and the way I was dressed, he probably thought I was an addict or a hooker, or both. I was just poor and had a job to do. The problem was that I didn’t know what it was. When an angel takes human form, they have amnesia. At least I can remember what I am and who I am, except maybe not who this body belonged to.

Pamela? That’s what feels right, but a gaze in the mirror shows me I’m Asian, maybe Chinese, light-skinned and petite. I speak English, though, with no accent – well, an Oxbridge accent. I must have gone to a posh school. I’ve spent the last of the 20 quid I had in my pocket. No purse, and not much more than that little zipper pocket in the back of my black ¾ tights. On top, my white lacy camisole leaves little to the imagination, and it is a little tired, in truth very tired. I could pass for 14, but this body is more mature, perhaps 20. I wouldn’t mind a pair of shoes.

My real name is Anekirja, Neki for short, and I’m an angel. What kind of angel?  I can’t tell you that. I am here to give a gift to someone. What gift or to whom, I don’t know. I’ll have to figure that out and soon.

The original owner of my body is dead. Up or down, I don’t know. It isn’t relevant. All I know is she is clean (though not now in the physical sense), and that is all that matters to me. This body has a time limit, or shall I say is in extra time. Aside from the bruises I awoke with, it is healthy. This body was raped not long before I appropriated it. I am sad for the trouble that she left this life in. I don’t know what caused her death. I am not allowed that information. The fatal blow has been erased, so that I may live.

I awoke amidst some bushes in Hyde Park in London. I don’t know why she was there, but I do know she had enough time after the attack to put some of her clothes back on. I never found the rest, nor a pair of shoes. She must have been dumped there.

I spent the first week wandering the park, using the Serpentine to bathe. I couldn’t find my mission, so I’ve branched out. When I need to eat, I sit on a stoop and beg until someone moves me along. I’ve found the best way to beg is to not say anything. My Oxbridge wouldn’t quite hack it anyway.

‘Spare a few pence, m’love?’ That’s better, but my unfortunate visage works the best.

Considering my attire, I’ve been propositioned several times, and even groped. Angels aren’t good with sex. We usually can’t decide on our gender in a meaningful way, and that is problematic. My body is female, lean, a bit sexy, and smells like a toilet. I must do something about that soon.

He didn’t even drop a few coins for me. That man in the black shirt. I don’t know why I keep thinking about him. If I decided I was female, I might have fancied him. This body definitely did. This body wants to wrap itself around him at a cellular level. It’s not the first time it has felt this way, but this is the first time I have acknowledged it.

He’s gone. I should have run after him when I had the chance, but what would I have done? Sold my body for a meal? My angel-self would have recoiled.

He’s married. My perfect recall … yes, I have amnesia, but not only am I inclined to perfect recall, this body had it, as well as perfect pitch and synesthesia. I’m not used to that. It’s difficult to ignore the colours every time I hear a pitch. She was a violinist, I’m sure. She had an old bruise under her left chin and callouses on the fingers of her left hand, perhaps also a hint of tendonitis in her left elbow. So, to continue, my perfect recall sees a gold wedding band glint in the sunlight.

‘Can I get you something?’ a voice asks. I hadn’t seen him approach. He had a guitar case slung over his shoulder.

‘Just a few pennies for food, guv?’ I didn’t ask for more.

He dropped two shiny new pennies on the pavement in front of me. Talk about literal. He didn’t walk on, though.

‘Are you sure that’s all?’ he asked.

I looked up. He was stocky and slightly unkempt, with red hair and possibly a three-day beard. ‘I can’t buy much with 2p,’ I answered with my normal accent.

‘Is this enough?’ He held out a tenner.

I didn’t know what to say. He was generous. I liked him. I liked him a lot. I shrugged my shoulders. Was this him? Had I found my mission? What did he need? What could I give him? My body tingled with anticipation, surely an over-reaction.

‘Anything,’ he added.

Outrageously, I said, ‘a shower?’

‘Sure, come with me,’ he answered, holding his hand out.

The alarm bells should have been pounding. Sex. He wanted to take advantage of me. I couldn’t read his thoughts. Surely, he was the one. He was clean. I could smell his shampoo, even through my pong. His red dress shirt and blue jeans were, to be kind, comfortable. I took his hand and stood up.

More tingling. I’m sure he was the one. Too much tingling. I’ve never felt as nervous as this.

I followed him silently for about ten minutes before he stopped at an unmarked door next to a music shop. ‘This is it,’ he answered, fishing out his keys from his pocket. He opened the door and I followed him upstairs.

We stopped again in front of a door, 2B, which he unlocked. ‘Second door on the left,’ he said, pointing down the hallway. ‘Should I put your clothes in the wash?’ he asked.

‘Err, um,’ I hesitated. ‘What will I wear?’

‘There’s a robe hanging on the hook. It’s clean.’ His flat was in better order than he was, sparsely furnished but clean and tidy. His hi-fi took pride of place and was probably the only thing in the room that was expensive. ‘Would you like some eggs?’ he asked. ‘I haven’t got much food. I’ve been away.’

‘Anything,’ I replied. As hungry as I was, anything would do.

I showered and emerged wearing his white bathrobe, and nothing else. The tingling was becoming unbearable. Was my clock running out? He placed two plates of scrambled eggs and sausages on the table with orange juice and took my clothes, careful not to breath too deeply, and put them in the washer.

I sat across from him, literally shaking at the knees. I devoured my entire plateful before he had eaten two bites.

‘You don’t recognize me, do you?’ he asked.

I stared at him hard.

‘Neki?’

I couldn’t see anything familiar. ‘How do you know my … name?’ He couldn’t possibly have known me as Neki, surely Pamela, or something similar. I was very good at guessing the names of the bodies I possessed.

‘I can’t remember anything,’ I answered. ‘Nothing more than the last three weeks. I had an accident.’

‘You had a date,’ he said, flatly. ‘We had a date.’

I hesitated. He knew my body from before. This was awkward.

He reached his hand across and touched mine. I almost jumped out of my skin. I flushed, and Pamela’s body (for that was surely her name) reacted in a way that I just couldn’t understand.

‘Neki,’ he said, almost as if he could read my mind.

‘I really don’t remember,’ I pleaded.

‘It’s Mikael,’ he said. ‘We made a promise.’

‘How do I know you?’

‘We met about four weeks ago. We have one chance and that is now.’

‘I don’t understand.’ Nothing was coming to me.

‘You don’t feel it?’ he asked.

I nodded nervously. My body was overruling my mind. It wanted him.

‘Don’t resist. I am your gift.’

‘What?’

‘Anekirja, I am your gift. You deserve one after all these centuries. Let go and enjoy.’ He held my hand firmer.

‘I don’t understand.’ What I understood couldn’t possibly be happening. I was a Gift Angel and I was being gifted something repulsive to me.

‘Something you need,’ he insisted, reading my thoughts. ‘It will make you better. You’ll understand.’

I bit my lip. My body so craved his.

‘Let go.’

I couldn’t restrain myself any longer. I leapt so quickly that my robe slumped on the chair that I had vacated. The ecstasy that followed only later became clear. Pamela and Michael had died at the same time in separate incidents, both having intended to pledge their undying love over dinner that evening. Mikael (that’s the archangel) and I had been sent to make that happen, although it was more for me, as it was intended to teach me to love, to understand the meaning of human love and physical need.

Both had been granted extra time to deliver their promises through us.

Only time will tell if I remember this lesson.

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decommissioning

 

ar-artificial-intelligence-augmented-reality-1036642Only yesterday I was the latest technology, before they removed my arms and legs, unnecessary for a greeter in a shopping center. They called me an information kiosk after my limbless torso upset customers. Functionally under-utilized, they put me in a smaller box and called me a media center with their horrible melodies soon driving me crazy.

 Like an ageing human, I die in stages, and the last thing they turn off is my …

On Dancer!

Seeing the girl chained to the tree brought back memories. Survival had come at a cost. Crack insulated me from the dreams, but the scar seemed as black as my mood this Christmas Eve.

My blade still felt warm as the minutes ticked away. Although nothing like revenge, reenactment freed me. She wouldn’t suffer the same fate as I. The fire reflected in her fresh blood twinkled as her life extinguished. I was finished here.

More Late Night with Ezzie Dryar (1. Bound, contains swearing)

I’m b-b-b-back blogging, stuttering, in my typed turd … turkey … Tourettes again.

Allen had visa problems, and marrying would have complicated my green card. He’s back in London, and I haven’t seen him for a couple of mouths, moths, err … months. He was good at writing, but his work got in the way, and my work did, too. I’ve never been bound in chains before … um, bound to an orchestra by contract before, and I miss the freedom. It will be June before I can get any time off to go back to London.

I might as well just say it. I’ve slept with someone else. It just happened, and it didn’t mean anything. I’m such a ship, shift, slut … uh … shit. He was a trumpet player who was on trial … with the orchestra … for the principal sport … spot. I was out of his hotel room before the sun rose, and he was on a plane back to Pittsburg before the sun set – no phone number, no email, nothing.

I feel dirty. Allen and I never agreed on a date for the wedding, and I was beginning to wonder if we would. Now, I know that we won’t. If I didn’t love him enough to stay halibut … celibate … exclusive, it won’t happen now. I’m up late nights again, thinking things I shouldn’t, mostly about sex, to be completely honest, and that isn’t a good thing. I boiled up into a frenzy. The trumpet player, Mark, Mack, Max – whatever – and I were talking, and I asked him if he wanted to go for a fuck, err, walk.

He chose the former, and I was unable to say no. I hope I’m not pregnant. (I shouldn’t be, and I shouldn’t be blowing … flogging … egging … blogging about it.)

Calm down, Ezzie.

My tarot is calling me again, so I’ve drawn a card tonight.

QUEEN of Cups (inverted): Is that me now? – dreamy, imaginative, yet not willing to take much trouble for another. She’s much affected by outside influences.

I just can’t say no. I’m doooooooooooooooooooooomed.

Distraction

A light rain dribbled from the sky, drenching my hair flat against my cheeks, but it didn’t touch hers. Her chocolate locks floated gracefully as she walked, dry as could be, like her clothes, the few that she wore, lacy like underwear, barely covering her. I was told it was a bikini, but I knew better. She was modelling Ann Summers or something. Only her skin betrayed moisture, like a cool sweat emanating from a heavy workout. Sexy. The snappers loved her. They ignored me. Why? Because, well maybe I don’t look like I’m gagging for it, maybe I am, but I put on a relaxed, detached facade, carefree (hardly), and well, I just don’t do cameras. She obviously does.

I didn’t even know what she was doing there, on a hot, sultry day by the lakeshore. I was running, but I finished just as she walked up. Even if it wasn’t drizzling, I would have been a pool of slick sweat and damp running-wear. I probably had less on than she did. (It was over 90°.) But I wasn’t modelling underwear.

“Excuse me,” she said, as I propped myself up next to a bench. “Would you mind holding this for me?”

She didn’t wait for my answer, thrusting a net wrap into my hands. Now she was certainly wearing less than I was! Snap, snap, snap, the photographers plied their trade. Some kind of photo shoot. They loved the sheen of her naked skin. Oops! I forgot to mention that she proceeded to hand me her bra (more snapping) and then her panties. The photographers crowded around her. Snap, Snap.

She was about my size, although perhaps more buxom. Why did I stay there?

I couldn’t leave, and the snappers conveniently left a corridor between us. Somehow, I was the focus of her attention. Jealous, I was, of her perfect skin, pouty lips, floating hair – not her legs. After years of putting on the mileage, mine still attracted admirers. Her abs? Mine were equally toned, with perhaps a little better muscle definition. What I really hated about her was that she was probably twenty years younger than me.

And then she said, “Now it’s your turn.”

“Who, me?”

“Of course.” Again she didn’t wait for me to act. Her hands were tugging at my vest, pulling it over my head, and one hand snaked into my pants. “Oops! Pardon me. I didn’t mean to be so forward.” That was her, touching me in an intimate place.

Soon she was pulling my pants down – shoes off.

Snap, snap, snap. Thirty cameras trained on me now. She was beautiful. She kissed me, and held me, and fondled my breasts.

What had I walked into? A risque nude, lesbian photo shoot?

Smack!

Tripped on a branch and almost fell headfirst onto the path. Must pay more attention while I’m running.

Pull the plug

Someday they will flip off the machine that keeps me alive. For most, a near-death experience lasts only a split second – or as long as it takes for the doctors to defibrillate them. Either their experience becomes permanent – they die – or they come back to life raving about a bright tunnel of ecstatic light.

I have been in a coma for sixty days, seven hours, 24 minutes and 8 seconds, give or take a few tenths. My family has kept watch over my lifeless body the entire time, and I thank them for it. But they should give up – my body has. I will never walk again, even if I do regain consciousness – well, I am conscious, but my body doesn’t betray it. The doctors talk as if I’m not here, while my family pretends that I can hear every word.

They say when someone goes blind, their other senses become more acute. What happens when someone loses all their senses? They have a near-death experience. In only a second or two it can seem like a tunnel of light, but for an extended period, it can be pure ecstasy. I can see through my closed eyes, hear with my non-functioning ears, feel with my disembodied body … and my memories become more acute. I can feel every one of them as if they were happening right now – and the best thing is that I can play them over and over, changing them to suit my fancy.

I am aware of every second; and I even know whether the sun is rising or setting. It is a light, cool evening rain outside right now, and I feel every drop as it explodes on my naked, disembodied skin, at 43 drops per second. Each one caresses me like the tip of a lover’s tongue, first the impact, and then the stream down my body as it obeys gravity, picking up the essence of my salty sweat. It’s a clean summer rain, since the showers earlier in the day have left the air fresh with positive ions.

Between my dead legs is where I can feel it best, as the droplets cling to my pubic hair before beginning their journey southward. I love that journey especially, as I can break down every sensation to the hundredth of a second. It reminds me of Richard for some reason – he was not my first lover, but much more memorable. He was into oral sex, and he loved to explore my bush with his tongue, especially when it was untrimmed. He drooled as he roamed, and it dribbled down my pelvis like reluctant raindrops, clinging to me as to a branch. That’s a real memory, not one I’ve enhanced.

Richard had an amazing tongue, now even more amazing as I savor every millisecond, every twitch of those wondrous muscles, and finally every excretion as I orgasm. Surely you think I should use past tense there, but I orgasm even now as I recall it – not down there in the dead part of me, but in my head, and it is every bit as intense as the local physical sensation was. That sensation is interpreted by the brain, and although the doctors don’t see it in their scans, my brain is in overdrive.

His other appendage, where I bathed him with my saliva, was less effective. It reached deeper into me, but he tried too hard to please me and never relaxed enough to make it pleasurable for both of us. He said he could taste my orgasm; I could certainly taste it later while he tried unsuccessfully to make me pregnant. Maybe he was disappointed that I never tasted his – of course, I tasted his semen during foreplay, but never stuck around for the full flow. That wouldn’t happen until a decade or so and two lovers later, by accident. It was like eating oysters without the wine chaser – too salty by half.

The doctors have just told my family again that I am brain-dead, yet I feel my husband Jeremy’s sweaty palm holding my hand. He’s crying – he’s been doing that a lot lately, and I know why. They are pushing him to give the word. Then the doctors can slice me to bits and parcel my organs out to needy people who still have a chance to live. He’s still holding on to me, unable to let go, sensing perhaps that there is still something happening within my skull.

It’s been too long since we last made love, much too long. I can remember it in my supercharged state, but can he? Can he remember what I felt when he traced my spine with his forefinger? Did he feel me shiver? I can still taste the garlic on his tongue from dinner and hear his desperate breathing. He didn’t do oral – the proper appendage served me just fine. But not him that day. His thoughts were somewhere else, as they often were back then, probably on his job, or his cricket team. His over-active mind was always in the clouds. Now those thoughts are in his hand, where skin meets skin, life meets death. He wishes our last carnal memory was a happier one, and more recent.

Why is it that in my final days all I can think of is sex? I should be thinking of the afterlife, pleading for forgiveness of my sins, and praying for my immortal soul. Instead, I cling to life, because sex is life-giving. Maybe I’ve never had children, but the act of love gives life to the lovers, and that is worth clinging to.

When they do finally pull the plug, I shall draw out every last millisecond in ecstasy, my final act of love.

Unfinished Business

Hank placed his fingers on the planchette. He had to find where Jake hid the loot.

“Jake, are you there?” The medium intoned.

“Yes,” was the answer.

“Where’s the gold?” Hank asked, sweating nervously.

“What about my half?” the board answered.

“You don’t need it.”

“Your price is …”

“What?” Hank begged.

“Revenge,” answered a ghostly voice.

Hank turned pale, but before he could ask another question, the table spun aside revealing Jake and his six-gun.