Jane NashImagem gerada pelo ChatGPT – https://chatgpt.com/c/69dd22b2-123c-83e9-ad5b-d22da661e70e
“That cat!” Shouted the bald assistant behind the counter. He came out from behind it, flapping a rolled up newspaper towards the cat. It was as comical as ineffective. The cat strode further into the shop following a pair of red high-heeled shoes. A new purchase – widows should always wear red once mourning is spent,
Purring and chirping, the stray Maine Coon, who was almost the size of a medium dog, made its way to a large glass counter warmer which displayed cooked meat pies for sale..
The red shoes clicked over to the assistant “Like my late husband, Monty” she said, “always loved his pies.” The tom cat turned his head and when their eyes met, it winked at her. Not a random wink but a slow, serious one. Just like Monty used to when he was being rebellious or naughty.
“Has he got a name?” She couldn’t resist stroking this magnificent cat who returned the affection by weaving through her sheer-stockinged legs, brushing against her before returning to stare at the pies.
Losing a husband may seem careless but the lack of Monty now afforded her new, fashionable clothes, holidays with friends and an unrestricted diet. She was thinking about a pet, never having been allowed one.
“I don’t care what it’s called! I want it out of here!”
“I’d like to buy a pie. A cold one from the back please. Yesterday’s.”
On the pavement a huge Maine Coon tom cat held her gravied, manicured fingers between his paws and licked the soft skin clean with his rough tongue.
Does she believe in reincarnation? She doesn’t know nor does she care. She picks up a very large cat who is cleaning his whiskers and makes her way to a pet store.
A collar, harness, lead and a name-tag later, she has her pet and the name…? Guess!
Jane NashImagem gerada pelo ChatGPT – https://chatgpt.com/c/69d3b90c-94f8-83e9-939c-8783018482af
Of the sea and the sky hands weave details beyond the ordinary fibres sourced from many places blankets my background I have become accustomed to it forgetting its origin
I fail to recognise it outside or inside it patterns the trajectories of all our journeys but for all its charms remains sporadic in effect
This week I am cold When I recognise its ever presence I will embrace it and be warm Supernatural rumblings will bring second chances against all earthy odds
Jane NashImagem gerada por IA da Gemini – https://gemini.google.com/app/36406a29ddd907aa?utm_source=app_launcher&utm_medium=owned&utm_campaign=base_all
The light of each moment escapes her eyes and drops like Swarovski’s most delicate crystal tears upon the place beneath. The fairy hair of a three year old. She is blond from the summer sun, the northern hemisphere’s winter not yet taken root. This cherub plays hide and seek, gushing giggles in her wake, nose running in the excitement of small dogs and the colours of soft toys that she grasps. She bumbles her way around the garden dipping into the flowers and she surfaces smiling, pollen smears across her forehead, caught in wisps of that fairy-fine hair.
From inside, facing out of the window, the shining one watches her granddaughter. Light grey hair mimics the blond as age dares to fly into the space of youth’s newness. There are only a few moments where it’s possible and now is the magic time.
Yesterday there was no traffic. A common place Sunday but today is the day when the truck comes by. One man, one truck and steel clamped arms which snatch at the waste hidden in green plastic bins.
There is a small gate at the front of the garden, leading from the pavement to the front door. The twisted fashioned iron leaves have been painted green, the roses, red and the fleur-de-lis are painted in gold, a gift from another grandchild during a boring summer’s day whilst on holiday. In the haste of getting the bin outside onto the pavement, the latch on the gate has not clicked to close. A little gap invites a small child where gold paint sparkles in the sunlight. A crown of light haloes the off balance cherub as she makes her way down the path, away from the colour-filled flower beds.
The steel arms speed down to grab a bin and the child gets closer to the pavement. The sun glints from the lucky coins hanging from the rear-view mirror in the front cab of the truck and the driver sees, out of the corner of his eye, a tiny form making its way to the bins. He looks for an adult in pursuit but there is no one coming and he notices the shine from the red patent leather on her tiny feet.
This sprite of the Celtic sun sees only rainbows and follows them regardless of the unknown and danger. A moment of distraction has left her unattended and at the gate’s open invitation, she is unaware of a man in a truck, of bins and a light beginning to intensify as she draws closer to them. The man opens his window down and shouts “Hello! Is anyone responsible for this child? Hello?”.
Grandma is inside the house, the water from the taps in the sink covering his voice. When she looks up she sees a dishevelled toy, reminiscent of the pink pig it was when her granddaughter was born and she is comforted, thinking that the child and the pig are rarely separated. Thinking that the little one is safe amongst the flowers, she goes back to washing up the lunch dishes, she moves away from the window to switch on the kettle.
The man in the truck halts the steel arms and opens the door to return the toddler to the garden but as he descends from the front of the cab, a spear is launched and strikes at the heart of him. He cannot breathe. The pulse in his neck drops into his chest and a band is tightened to crushing. Blood on the pavement pools from his head and the red shoes stand in the red life force.
She sees rainbows until she sees a light descend from the sky. She sees a spear of light coming from the sky until she sees terrible beauty. She has no reference for such a face and is charmed by its peacefulness. She has no fear. Awkwardly reaching forward over the man’s chest, she grasps hold of the spear and steadies herself. Motionless, she watches him as he writhes and gasps. Dark beauty reaches out to cradle his head but the girl’s little arms instinctively pushes her away. Urgent footsteps race down the path stopping only in view of the vision which prepares to carry his soul from here to there. Grandmother watches her granddaughter repel the magnificence of wings wishing to enfold a screaming heart. The child doesn’t realise but has the gift and a thousand years of shamanic song and drumming pours from her fingertips as she pulls out the spear and hands it back to the heavenly messenger who stands, stunned at not only the uninformed audacity but also a purity of heart and intent.
The older woman’s light radiates from her eyes and she places her hands over his heart and watches the girl clumsily return the spear to its celestial owner. There are rainbows until they see a light ascend to the sky and shoes are no longer smeared with the lifeblood of a man who cared enough to protect a fairy-haired three year old who had escaped from her grandmother’s notice.
Angels are not beyond forming agreements and a pink pig is replaced that day through the palming of light by the smallest of shamens in red patent shoes.
I’m sanitising the sideboard where I lay my paper down I’m bleaching the steps at the front and back doors I’ve got bottles of disinfectant ready for murder, if I must I’m keeping a squeaky clean house because it’s the Season of the Cane Toad
I take my dog’s temperature each time it comes indoors from playing Just in case, I run random blood tests on the cats in the neighbourhood They’re quite put out but who takes much notice of a whining cat? Only dogs who aren’t too tired to chase.
It’s their refusal to back down, sitting there with that hang dog expression upon their already thinned lips that shits me Bloated, up to a ruler length, they swarm the fields, the streets, the outsides of chip-shops and pizza-joints, the back exits of hospitals, the exhaust-pipes of trucks.
Never seen a cane toad in a cane field yet. No matter how hard I try to keep the place clean, another one will pop up, usually in a shady corner I’ve forgotten or missed. The pacifist in me disappears and I am hell bent on their destruction.
Where do they go off season? Do they all vacation at another location? Were they just temporarily camouflaged, or were they being Rendered by some invisible string theory?
It’s been a long toad season, And the poison is an ever bitter bite to taste Thought they would go when the rains failed But they stayed, and grew fatter in secret.
Recently I’ve seen reports on the news that every country now has toads Foreign travel has been banned But I’m not sure whether it’s for them or us?
Jane NashImagem gerada pelo ChatGPT – https://chatgpt.com/c/69b7ed33-80a8-83e9-a202-adb4af1eee5c
Emily wasn’t paying attention to the traffic, earbuds firmly in her ears, cranking out tunes to narrate her morning of waking, washing and going to work. On the pedestrian crossing she felt a hand grab her upper arm and drag her sideways. Surprised she looked up from her phone. There were two strangers, one each side of her in the middle of the road, traffic beeping their horns to make them clear the crosswalk.
‘A motorbike didn’t stop,’ he said.’you were headed for a collision.’ She shook her head, the moment passed and she noticed the woman to her right. The woman took her phone from her and tapped in a phone number causing the woman’s own phone to ring.
‘Rod and Trish’ she said, ‘you have our number now’ and she handed the phone back.
‘Thank you for saving me’ mumbled Emily, still shocked from being manhandled.
‘No worries, It’s all in a day’s work,’ Rod replied, releasing her arm. The three of them continued along the pavement a little way.
‘How can I thank you?’ Emily asked, not really expecting to have to give them anything.
‘Nothing much.You didn’t mean to get run over today, did you?’ said Trish.
Emily was unquieted by their response but thanked them again and made her way to the BEE-GOOD advertising agency where she was a receptionist.
At 12.00 pm her phone rang. ‘Hi! It’s Trisha. Fancy a coffee at lunch time? It must be around your lunch time now?’
‘Er, yes, how about Christo’s, do you know where that is?’ she wondered how Trisha would know her lunch schedule. Feeling somewhat beholden to her, Emily exited the building to unexpectedly see both Trish and Rod, beaming at her and waiting. Coffee was initially awkward at Christo’s café, located on the corner, but Trish didn’t seem to notice. Instead, she collected facts about Emily’s opinions and life. Not realising they were mining her data so easily, Emily nevertheless turned the conversation towards them instead. Trish was willowy, almost 6ft tall with wild hair, not cut for some time. She was chatty with small dark eyes. Rod was shorter, squat with thick arms and muscly shoulders. He was also verbose and often competed with Trish for sentence space. They didn’t match as a couple but they shared a sense of enthusiasm which infected Emily. Familiarity breeds a sense of security and by the end of the month, it was a frequent meeting, the two of them with Emily during her lunch at Christo’s Café.
The call came in at ten minutes to midnight one Tuesday. Emily woke, groggy from taking a sleeping pill earlier due to her insomnia.
‘Emily, it’s about Trish. I need your help.’ Rod’s voice wasn’t urgent, instead it was monotonous as if leaving a message on an answer service.
‘Where are you?’ Emily tried to shake herself more awake.
‘I’m front of your apartment building. Please come now.’
Emily’s curiosity of how he knew where she lived was quickly replaced with worry for her new found friend.
In the car, Emily didn’t recognise where they were as Rod drove out of the suburbs onto a back road with no other traffic on it. A cold prickle ran from the back of her neck down to the middle of her back. Her head was still foggy and she knew her speech was slow. Something, however was not quite right. Rod barely spoke while driving. Her survival sense screamed ‘RUN’ but her head tried to ignore her heart and she wiped her sweating palms onto the sides of her trousers. Her increased pulse rate and the trembling shortness of breath she was experiencing still called to alarm. The night as well as being seductive to sleep began to contain a sense of dread.
Rod turned off the back road after about fifteen minutes of bumpy driving, through some cattle gates leading to an old farmhouse. A light shower fell upon Emily as she stepped from the car, helping to clear her head, adrenalin now fully kicked in. Being wet made sense of walking into the farmhouse even with its peeling paint on the weatherboard walls and door frame. The front door opened into darkness. Emily snapped into alert but it was too late. A searing pain struck her in the chest and zapped her body and she fell to the floor. Trisha stepped out of the darkness holding a now discharged taser. Emily’s limbic system went into overload and unable to run away, she fainted.
She opened her eyes as Rod’s hand finished clamping her ankle to the leg of the chair she was now tied to. She could smell her own urine and her legs were wet, her trousers soaked at the crotch. She could taste his breath in the air, sour and pungent from eating garlic.
Trisha walked around the chair, caressing Emily’s cropped blond hair, saying nothing.
‘Why am I here? demanded Emily which was quickly followed by ‘Let me go. Let me go. Let me go. I won’t say anything to anyone, I promise.’ Trisha yanked Emily’s head back, exposing Emily’s throat.
‘Cry out if you like. No one can hear you.’ This sharp action caused Emily to swallow hard which hurt.
Emily noticed two German Shepherd dogs panting, lying down to attention by the front door. ‘Bruce, Highway’ Rod called the dogs. They came to him meek and obedient. ‘Don’t be fooled,’ Rod said, his voice suddenly sharp and cold. ‘They don’t know you. They let you in but they won’t let you out without my say so.’ Emily made a mental note that the dogs were not worth crossing. She asked again, ‘Why am I here?’
Trisha, stood in front of her. ‘Plaything,’ she said smiling. Horror is not a regular emotion to carry, certainly for most people on a daily basis but here Emily was in a not-so-private hell. Her brain couldn’t compute the many possibilities which lay ahead for her. Fear dried her mouth and spiked her eyes. Trish cut Emily’s jacket from her body and held a small pistol pointing at Emily’s heart.
‘Small but deadly’. The couple laughed unnecessarily loud, enjoying the sounds of their own voices. Rod took a large kitchen knife from a drawer. A light was switched on. She was in a living room. The irony did not escape her. He held the point at Emily’s chin. ‘The pistol and the dogs, our security, but this,’ Rod pressed the tip of the knife into Emily’s chin, just enough to make her feel a rivulet of blood run down over her neck. ‘This is for fun.’
‘It’s an old belief, we know, but we saved you – we are now responsible for your life.’
Emily stuttered, ‘I don’t think the principle is meant to work like that.’
Jane NashImagem gerada por IA do Grok – https://grok.com/imagine/post/1e2a24ed-3810-4b34-8234-7296950c7d9c
Coarse hair against hair against hair Fingers drum down my scalp Sleepy eyes open the clock is early The shower blanket drains over fleshy me Burnt into the brain black marks sing out From curved wooden bodies and black hilo strings.
Sweet…… Salty……. Umami…… Smooth liquid strokes the inside of me Hot in report Comforting skin and stomach
The sun presses into our cheeks As our rough hands explore skin investigating Your powerful arms release me A moment of weightless existence Brings a smoothing Of metal or wood for the delivery of stripey socks
Sweet…. Salty…. Umami Smooth liquid strokes the inside of me Hot in report Comforting skin and stomach
Peaty breath with samphire tones Waves break over me Sending me Away to my deep bed
Jane NashImagem gerada pelo ChatGPT – https://chatgpt.com/c/69a58bdd-2a74-832a-b808-748f6a468bde
Just a sip. It is enough to register in her hair if needs be but not enough to kill her. She’s practiced the smile she now uses, urging her husband to finish his Coke. Old style bottles in a crate. She has rehearsed removing the lid. She has also learned how to replace the cap quite closely, leaving no room for mistakes.
He is thirsty, She brings him another Coke, opening the bottle in front of him at the dinner table. She takes a sip before she gives him the bottle.
He feels bilious. He aches in his guts. Nausea permeates his sinuses. This subsides overnight leaving in its wake, increasing lethargy and confusion.
Each night at dinner, she opens a bottle, takes a sip and leaves the rest for him to finish.
Any ill effects she feels, she knows will pass. It is worth it. She gives up drinking Coke with him. She prefers water, she says as he glugs down the tainted soda. She comforts herself. It shouldn’t take that long. She has the patience of Job.
