Categorie archief: Stories in English

Dancing

Love was light and gentle as the airy breeze that cooled my skin. We danced the Kizomba and I followed her hips swaying before me in a rustling summer dress. It was the first night of my life with Love. We closed our eyes and slumbered in the infinite embrace of each other’s arms, the embers glowing defiantly in the dying flames. Then Love rose and dropped the dark blue cloak of night at her feet. She turned away from the fire and faded, like stars inevitably do in the moment of dawn.

That one time was enough. I still feel Love´s warm droplets of sweat running down the arch of her back, intoxicated by the sweet scent of her perfume, the world whirling around me in the enticing cadence of her hips. Love dances every evening until the day embraces the night and the morning gently kisses her lips. Love won’t let go of me and as long as I hold on to her, life will hold on to me. Isn’t she beautiful? As I sit on the edge of the bed I watch her in my room, a silent space as big as the world. My Love is sleeping there, her eyes are dancing in the rhythm of her dreams.

 

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I have linked this story to the Wicked Wednesday meme of Marie A. Rebelle´s blog: ‘Rebel´s Notes.’ It is an adaptation of a short entry I wrote in Dutch for the Valentines day writing contest of Editio.nl. The prompt was: ‘write an Ode to Love in no more than 250 words.’ The motto of the contest was: ‘If Love isn´t insane, it isn´t Love.’

 

The Treshold

This is an original story in English that I wrote for the Wicked Wednesday Meme of Rebels’ Notes.

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The Treshold

For months I´ve noticed that you’ve been looking at the bulge in my pants. Every time I walk into your office, your eyes make me dwell on the threshold.
It’s not simply that I don’t dare to enter. It is just not in the order of things for me to walk into your office.
Unintentionally or purposefully, you watch the small bulge in my pants and me, the man behind it.
By now you must have figured out what kind of a man I am, but you keep your understanding of me to yourself.
I know what you feel, and I sense what you know, but I will not hand you the words to express it.
Our true identities manifest themselves only in those instances when we play this little game every working day; the playful little game which has me trying to enter your office and your eyes keeping me fixed on the threshold.

Your glass-eyed gaze always wanders off onto my lap which holds my fertile little cock. Once in a while you just need to imprint your dominance on someone like me.
It makes you feel so good.
I am proud that I can give you that feeling by just lingering on the threshold of your office. I turn and swivel without any need on your doorstep, just to let you feel that I am submissive to you.
You know it and I know it.
This soft and fragile truth will persist between us as long as it remains unspoken.
When we look at each other, truth hovers as the subtlest of fragrances in the silent air.
It cannot be touched. It cannot be seen. It is simply there.
The spark in your eyes has fueled my desire, the silkiness of your voice has me enchanted in hypnotic bliss. Yet the threshold of your office door is keeping us apart, preserving these precious daily pleasures in the silence which conceals our little secret so delicately. 

I was just thinking, could I bring you some tea now?

-/\-

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The White Dress

I have linked this story to Rebel´s Notes Wicked Wednesday meme. It is a translation of a story I wrote in Dutch, called ‘De Witte Japon’ Reader´s advice: this story is longer (2800 words) than most Wicked Wednesday stories.

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The White Dress

Wait, what was that? A small irregularity? A minor disruption? A different rhythm maybe?  The more he listened, the louder and more irregular the thumping in his chest became. “I can hear your heartbeat, Luke,” Meryl had often said when they laid exhausted in each other’s arms after sex. But that was then and long ago. Now he was single and listened nervously to the wild pounding of his heart. He put on his shoes and coat and got into his car. He started driving without a plan, without a destination, yet he did have one goal: to stop the maddening thumping in his chest.

At the end of the day he drove through the autumn woods when a dark shadow appeared in a clearing at the edge of the forest. At first he thought of a deer but as it approached he saw that it was the silhouette of a naked woman. She had a beautiful hourglass figure with big round breasts and wide hips. Her long brown hair hung in strands over her face and stuck to her breasts. She was dirty, lumps of mud clinging to her light skin. With her naked, natural beauty she looked like she’d stepped out of a festival film from the sixties. She ran towards him, flagging him down with her arms. Hesitation and fear had him undecided: should he slow down or accelerate?  A horny curiosity got the better of him. He stopped and lowered the car window just a tiny bit. read more here

The Dead Snow Man

I have linked this story to Rebel´s Notes Wicked Wednesday meme. It is a translation of my story in Dutch: ‘De Dode Sneeuwpop.‘ Reader´s advice: this story contains some cruel scenes and strong language and is longer (2900 words) than most Wicked Wednesday stories.

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“Do you know me? I’m Alicia. I live in this city, just like you. Perhaps we have even met before. But I’m sure I have not told you my story, because my story is not meant for you. It is mine. My mother moved to the US when I was a year old and left me with my grandmother in San Jose, Costa Rica. I can still remember the heat in my grandmother’s house under the corrugated iron roofing, the thick air saturated by the stench of molten plastic from the burning rubbish heaps in the streets. I can still smell the scent of the charcoal that filled the yard when grandma was cooking. I remember all these things. But I do not remember my mother. No one has ever heard of her anymore. Sometimes I’m glad I cannot remember her. Therefore, I do not live in the past, I only live in the present, without memory, without regret, without expectations for tomorrow … read further