Centre Piece

Against the pearly whiteness of a cinematic queen,
I shimmered with an enticing and legendary sheen,
surreptitiously a star in many scintillating scenes,
until recklessly ravaged by ruthless go-betweens.

I was purveyed to the palms of a pretty maid,
in return for favours of a much darker shade,
but malice made the maiden’s marvel fade
and so began my wanders through the starless trade.

I saw her casing crack and flap away in haste,
a chipped bauble was she, and half-crazed.
On shabby velvet I lay with others gone to waste,
yet, too expensive for those without any taste.

“This ere’ – a buckle for the missus Sunday shoes!
I was fondled by filthy fingers declaring: “Two!”
The pawn-broker raised his eyes, sapphire blue,
shook his hardened head and stared him through.

Awhile they stood their ground, then settled for three.
I faded further, as I reflected on my dented fee.
The wife: gap-toothed and greedy-grinned, glaring with glee.
My view: the flouncing flaccid flesh of an overweight knee.

Shod was she, and I – shoe-riding mile after mile,
through gutters of slop with waste running vile.
Splashing through puddles, a yellowish green bile,
a lady dressed in best, ‘cause the fish-wife had style.

She gained a stone and I lost two – then four.
Now a piece of worthless scrap forever more,
I thought as I came undone and fell to the floor.
Groping the ground, she wailed and swore!

Trod on and trampled by countless, yet noticed by none,
until the precious hands of a child turned me round.
I mingled with the cluster of other treasures she’d found,
of illustrious backgrounds that would truly astound!

Still much in love with her street urchin souvenirs,
her workshop sparkled below crystal chandeliers.
She beheld me with onyx pupils, dilated as in fear,
and whispered excited: “A necklace, my dear?”

After many long years being treated like trash,
once again I catch the eye of every amber flash,
where I sit in pride of place, uniquely re-hashed,
and reflect over a century of contrasts’ clashed.

Against the pearly whiteness of a cinematic queen, I shimmered with an enticing and legendary sheen, surreptitiously a star in many scintillating scenes, until recklessly ravaged by ruthless go-betweens.

Against the pearly whiteness of a cinematic queen,
I shimmered with an enticing and legendary sheen,
surreptitiously a star in many scintillating scenes,
until recklessly ravaged by ruthless go-betweens.

©Fraughtfully

Halloween book drop – Find the Shadowman!

Bookdrop

Fraughtfully turns Frightfully this Halloween with a Ghostly book drop around Brighton and Hove. The clues to get yourself an unnerving story is: salvage and reuse! If you find a book, a card or both, please update us with comments and pictures on here, on Instagram: #findtheshadowman or on Facebook: Find the Shadowman

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Ray of Dawn

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A sun beam sliced its way in between the slats of the Venetian blinds, through the gloom, and illuminated Ray’s big toe where it poked out from underneath the duvet. Ray lay in bed, resting his hand on the Dawn shaped dent in the mattress; a dent that mirrored the shape of the wound inside his soul.

Specs of dust danced a dance through the single sun beam. Ray had loved to dance with Dawn. And dust had made Dawn wheeze.

As the minutes passed, the beam of light jumped down from Ray’s toe and traced a path along the floor towards the window. Dawn had had a trace of the softest down along her hairline.

Ray got out of bed and shuffled towards the wardrobe. His dark suit hung next to Dawn’s sunny dress, like an eclipse. Ray put it on, flicked some dust off the lapels and sighed.

To earth from earth, to ashes from ashes, to dust from dust and send the bright Dawn down into the deepest darkest grave.

Shadowman

Instant beauty! New evocative illustrations provided by http://www.julietmorrisphotography.com for Shadowman, an ongoing project

Fraughtfully

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In the darkness you can only see him if he smiles. Teeth hovering in the air, shimmering like pearls. In the daylight he’s your shadow. He wears a hat slanted to one side. Underneath it, his oily hair is slicked back. His suit trousers are high-waisted and his jacket double-breasted. He smokes. He hasn’t changed his clothes or his filthy habit since the day he died.

Neither has he moved house.

…and Astrid thought the house was empty when she moved in.

Astrid is ten years old. She has a gift that she might have preferred to have been without had she known any different. She can see through people, straight into the core of their hearts. Mostly there’s nothing to see, just a greyscale, value 0-255.  At times the core is a roaring fire that can’t be classed as good or bad, it just burns endlessly. The intensity…

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