Memory, not history

When your pages

finally printed

memory, not history,

I will become

there is no second time.

© Aurelle

Taking off on a Marly Horse, by Aurelle (August, 2009 at the Louvre)

Champs-Élysées a-fluttered, by Aurelle (August, 2009)

For the love of the game, by Aurelle (Montmartre, Paris, August 2009)

The Descend, by Aurelle (at the Louvre Museum, August 2009)

Number 2 - Aurelle

Exactly that, my second tune.

Photo: mercurialn

I keep feeding

it doesn’t seem to stop

the pain where life isn’t

ticking to nothing.

© Aurelle

Vicky Cristina Barcelona (Allen, 2008)

No. Let’s talk. Let’s discuss our fate before I melt away. Can’t you see this wanton lust is nothing but a transient impulse? We have control. Why complicate things? We can’t ride this thrill into the sunset. Passion is selfish. There are expectations. Choices made. We can’t do this. I don’t do this. No, wait. Why won’t you hesitate? I’ll count to three, backward. You’re going to have to disappear.

Three. Please. I can’t make love to you if this is but a pit stop. I don’t want to be some random port. It’s not going to work. I don’t know where we’re going. Do you? I’m not just going to start putting my sails up to the wind. We build our ship and we stay on course. I’ve been doing just fine.

Two. Breathe, Vicky. Is this fire? I must stomp on it. I’m strong enough to get through this ridiculous fantasy. I have a good head above my shoulders. I will do what is practical. Logical. Mature. Smart. If I think really hard, I will stop wanting. It. You.

One. This is not happening. Fcuk.

© Aurelle

Death Girl: Nobody expects the murderous blob

by Aurelle

Photo: ck/ck

I started feeling a little funny after the fifth drink. The night was raining stars and I wanted to forget. I cracked up at everything, desperately trying to drown the sound of memories in the dark room. The party faded from my sight and I found myself wandering alone between lamp posts on the long, crooked street. Everything was collapsing in orange hue.  I lifted my skirt and waved around until my feet got tired of floating. It was not long before a car stopped. I remembered the feel of leather against my face, and a stern, quiet face inquiring.

“He will not be pleased. We’re leaving tonight.”

I straightened my blouse, clutching at my purse and the Jesus bar. I wondered where I was being taken to, and whom I was riding with. Perhaps I should have made more effort to protest, but my head felt light and my heart was heavy. We came to a halting stop in front of a gated driveway and I felt myself lifted in the air. The light was soft in front of the fireplace. Being the good guest that I was, I immediately made a mess of the white carpet. My hair, partly matted against my delirious eyes, was all over that stern, quiet face.

“I’m terribly sorry. I’m … Can I dance?”

“You should lie down, Maebe.”

“Are you uncertain, or is that my name?”

“I’m certain that’s your name. Is it not?”

“Tonight, it is. In the morning, it shouldn’t be.”

“You’ll be the judge of that when you see him tomorrow. I’ll pack everything. You just go to sleep now. I promise I’ll be g…”

I didn’t hear the last part of that sentence as the room whirred. It was the fifteenth hour when I next opened my eyes. It took me all of five minutes before I got hit with a pounding headache and the sudden realization that I did not know the person I woke up to.

“Who are you? Where am I?”

“You’re in Paris. They made a terrible mistake. You’re free to go when you’re ready.”

“Wait.”

“You’re welcomed to stay as long as you like. Here’s an envelope for you. It has enough to keep you comfortable for a while, and your one-way ticket back to Canada. We’ll just keep this low key. Bon chance.”

He said no more and left the room. It was not every day that I woke up in a stranger’s bed to the sound of Paris in the afternoon. I wasted no time dwelling on what just happened and stormed the ground that took me in. I was momentarily in the forgetful place I’ve always wanted to be. I fell in love once more.

This is my drunk story.

I’ve never been drunk in my life.

© Aurelle