Tag: writer

An Open Letter to a Nigerian CatFisher

I’ve been thinking of you, this morning.

Since the day I found out you weren’t real, when I looked into the real doctor, I’ve been thinking of how to write to you – to the real you.

Underneath it all, there’s a real you. I’m sure I touched upon it – with my poetry, with my writing.

So, I’m writing to the real you, this time — although, truth be told, I was writing to the real you, all the time.

Though you weren’t you.

Except in your responses to me; in your responses to my poetry.

“Charmed by your writing,” you wrote to me. That, I believe.

So, here I am, writing to you — to the human in you.

I told you, that first day, that I was skeptical of you. My senses were accurate; you were deceiving me. I don’t know why.

I’m told, and there are ways to learn, to surmise what your purpose was. I’m just a humble writer; just a humble poetess. I’ve not money to give you; only time. Only my time, and my writing.

So, I’m writing to you — for myself, this time.

Let me be open with you, for I am open (and that, incidentally, is why you’ve not hurt me):

I love what is real… and it was the real in you that kept me intrigued, that suspended my time with you, that suspended my disbelief.

It will never make sense to me that people deceive — whatever the reason, be it for money, for love, for attention. I am too real, too honest, too guileless to want in my life anything but what is real…

Even if a sweet romance with some intriguing man is beautiful to me.

For better or for worse, reality is what draws me; and honesty is what gives me strength. For better or for worse, truth, not lies, captivate my mind; beg me to enter any relationship, for any reason, and hold me, bind me to anything.

Birdsong; wafting breezes; thundering planes roaring through the sky. Chills from cool mornings and the heat of the sun in warm afternoons beckon me to stay, to indulge, to brave all else that may call to me. Truthful conversations, real reactions: these things draw me from whatever else I may feel — and not because I wish for something to happen, but because something is happening. Something real is happening.

And I am not afraid of shifts in weather, of shifts in personality; but only, ever, does deceit eat away at such things, for deception is the death of anything.

So, I ask you this: Why deceive? Why continue a deceit, a ruse when it was clear that you had nothing to take from me, when I could give you nothing more than time, when so much of my writing was yours, already, to read?

It is curious to me, for it was you who was caught in a trap of reality… and I have certainly been accused — before, by others to whom I gave my reality — of spinning a web in which they became caught.

You thought yourself the spider, and I the fly; but truth shows a mirrored reality: that truth, not lies, not deceit binds people. And it is truth, reality, openness that keeps us, nourishes us, gives us life — and love.

I get tired of the secrets; they’re only good when they’re revealed, in any case.

I’m intriguing only because I’m real, open, honest, vulnerable; and my vulnerability keeps me safe because I choose to be vulnerable — but not unwisely so, not naively so.

Conscious vulnerability is the safest place in all the world… because in this act, alone, I can see best all that there is to see; because I can see others’ shields sparkling, and I can see where vulnerability remains. I can see it, and I choose to prod those spots gently… not to cause pain, as others might; but to give life, to encourage increased vulnerability — with me, if with no one else.

So, take from me this:

You have a choice to be real, to be vulnerable, as I have seen you to be. You have a choice to read and respond, or not to respond and remain in your dark secrets.

But I live in the freedom of life, and I can feel the breath of breezes touching me; while you and all of those who shield themselves — in others’ skins, as you tried with me, or behind the walls of their other fictions — feel only what slips beneath the seams of your various armors.

I am real. And that is honestly the most valuable thing I have… but you cannot have all of my reality, nor anyone’s (not even your own), if you do not remove your own armor first and step into your own reality.

I hope, for your own sake, that you abandon this fruitless cause that isolates you so deeply.

The Treason of Humanity

No one wants to know how much it matters to talk, how vital it is to express oneself.

But no one tells the birds to be quiet, or the crickets to be silent.

Nothing but fear and instinct shuts them down, causes them pause – and it is only a pause, to better assess the situation, to gauge their safety and the safety of their community. A pause…

And then, back to what they were saying, doing. Singing to who-knows-what in the middle of the day; chirping to the stars all night long.

But we humans?

We learn to speak, and are silenced immediately.

We never have a chance to sing to our hearts’ desires, to speak to our minds’ content. We cannot ask the millions of questions, cannot share the billions of things we’ve learned.

We are shut down by mother, father, sister, brother, grandparents, aunts and uncles, teachers… by everyone. Not engaged. Not even distracted. We are bound to listen, to obey…

To relinquish our freedom of speech before we ever know what that means.

And we wonder at the lack of intelligence in our day.

We are confounded at the dissolution of marriages, of families, of relationships.

We wish for peace…

And yet, we cannot, will not speak, will not allow hearts to speak…

Though we cannot help but love those few who break through the silence, the rules of self-oppression.

I would give anything to listen, and to speak.

To be me, Meri, for all eternity.

And so…

I shall.

Politeness is treason of our own humanity.

Crosswinds

Somehow, he had managed to have them upgraded to first-class seats.

Somehow, she thought, when he doesn’t even have air miles or priority status.

He was just charming, that way.

They boarded and found wide, comfortable seats next to each other. She loved flying first-class: she loved the free alcoholic beverages (even though she didn’t drink that much) and the cute snack baskets in which flight attendants carry so many unnecessary goodies (even if they were things she’d never eat at home); it felt like when she was a child on road trips with her parents. Her mom would always pack coolers full of soda and water bottles, would pack bags full of their favorite munchies so the kids wouldn’t be anxious or obnoxious on the trip and Dad wouldn’t have to stop “every ten minutes” to satisfy one child’s or another’s hunger pangs.

They hand out blankets, in first class, when you’re cold and pillows if you need them; and they are always unfailingly nice.

He leaned over and buried his nose in her hair; lingered. She smirked, turned her head just slightly towards him.

“Hmm… comfortable?” she asked.

He smirked, his grin only visible from the shift in his cheekbones that she could make out peripherally. “Mmmmm…” he hummed happily. He parted her hair with his sharp nose and pressed his warm lips against her neck.

She shuddered, let out a soft gasp and tilted her head oppositely to give him access; his teeth sank impressionably into her skin.

Thirteen lived her life with a strong awareness of the world around her; but, when she was with Twenty-Six, it was challenging to maintain even in the best of times. …Well… let’s make that: ‘even when he wasn’t touching her skin.’ But her habitual love of observation, of learning all she could about the world around her always kicked in, demanding she become aware, considerate of others despite the inconvenience it sometimes posed to various parts of her life.

Twenty-Six knew this about her, and it was one of the things he enjoyed most. He knew of her duality of purpose: both to learn about and to love the world for what it is, while breaking every rule that bound her to those traditions and ways of thinking she considered antiquated or obsolete. He knew, also, that it implied Thirteen would only inconvenience others or disturb their comfort as a result of her behaviors if she considered her pleasure, behavior and priorities to be – very innocently – more important than theirs… particularly when she assessed they might learn something from her daring nature.

So, Twenty-Six took pleasure in testing Thirteen’s boundaries, even if it meant he irked her sometimes. He loved playing games, and she was – quite literally – his favorite playmate.

Twenty-Six shifted his teeth meaningfully, pressing his sharp incisors just a fraction deeper into her throat. Thirteen’s low moan and the throbbing pulse beneath his lips indicated that Twenty-Six was winning the attention he prized; he paused and lightly licked the warm skin caught between his teeth.

She shuddered again and closed her eyes, goosebumps raising all over her skin.

Suddenly, Thirteen jerked the rest of her body to attention, her eyes open slightly, and glanced around the plane like a doe watching for predators. Her head and neck did not otherwise move.

So far, it seemed they were unsettling no one. The businessmen across the aisle were caught up with their martinis and cell phones; she could see no one else who might have noticed.

Thirteen lifted her hand and stroked Twenty-Six’s cheek, hidden under her waves of hair; then gently herself pulled herself away.

Twenty-Six did not move, but watched her with wide, child-like eyes. He murmured, his voice low and facile, “What? You didn’t like it?” The twinkle in his eyes and smirk forming at the corners of his mouth could not be repressed.

Thirteen’s lashes lowered shyly, acknowledging that her handsome companion had achieved his ends. She leaned over to his earlobe and, her hot breath falling upon his skin, confirmed:  “…You’re driving me crazy. You know you are….”

One side of Twenty-Six’s mouth lifted to a victorious half-smile.  He had wanted to push her more, had learned her limits, knew when was best to push them… and this was Thirteen’s way of saying she wanted everything he would deliver (and possibly more than he had yet contrived), and that she trusted him enough to break every foul rule in every book, was ready and willing to walk together, unabashedly, straight into Heaven or Hell or jail or whatever-might-result from doing so…

But that could wait.

Twenty-Six had been with plenty of women over the years, and none was quite like Thirteen. There were women more ravenously eager, more carnally-driven, but he had long ago lost interest in them. They were, to him, the soul-equivalent of vultures and hyenas:  They had a job to do and they did it exceptionally well; no one could fault or criticize them for any of what they were. They were even – and often! – quite physically beautiful, kind, sweet ladies; but he found their motivations shallow. There were no hidden parts to women like that; there were no discoveries, no surprises.

There were women, too, more naively innocent than Thirteen… but they just made Twenty-Six feel dirty, evil, cruel when he toyed with them. Which, he remembered well, he had.

He played with women for years on end, until he met Thirteen. He was even expecting to play with her, when they met… until he quickly found he couldn’t. The longer he gazed into her immortal eyes, the longer he spent looking at any part of her, the more he felt connected to her… and the more he saw of her. She was so open, so guileless… so vast. It was like she started, at first glance, as a mere female, then took shape as a sensual and beautiful woman, and then just kept expanding infinitely… while, somehow, she managed to keep her multitudinous universes spiraling, growing inside her very feminine figure. He didn’t quite get lost, but sometimes… wouldn’t it be fun to? Because, god, she was beautiful…!

He had confessed to her the game he played with other women, when they met. He confessed his reasons for playing: that he was bored with the women he met, that they did little for his intelligence or for his ego; that it was no great boost to be considered fantastically-attractive by women to whom he was only physically attracted. He had used women like one uses drugs, needing more and more, becoming increasingly less satisfied, intrigued, happy…

And he confessed his original intentions with her.

He fully expected her to walk away from him, at that last point. He fully expected her to hate him, to judge him, to consider him absolutely beneath her — and, she didn’t. Even when, many times, he hated himself for what he did with women.

The memory flickered through Twenty-Six’s mind in an instant as he watched her; and his playful mood shifted urgently to express his mind’s subconscious, intense conclusion. His hands lifted to hold her face, his eyes poured silently passionate emotion into hers. His heart felt like it would burst if he did not do something; his blood surging through him like a flood, he felt a nearly-overwhelming desire to take her, then and there.

He pressed his lips to hers instead. He held himself there, held her face strongly, gently.  Their lips did not move for eternal moments, the river of his energy rushing into her, binding them together with the exact effect of touching a live wire.

Finally, after what seemed like eons, he felt his passion ease just a fraction; his lips parted and the primal part of his psyche took control. Their lips parted synchronously; his tongue found hers and danced, lapped at her mouth as he drank renewed and intermingled energy from her like a thirsty animal at a crystal spring.

She responded perfectly; there was no thought in her but him, yet her awareness of the entire plane, of the entire world became increasing complete. It felt, to her, like his passion drove her entire body and mind into perpetually-heightened states of relaxed sensitivity; this feeling – however in her life she could find it – always felt like surfing, like riding the crest of a wave into complete understanding.

Her cheek twitched suddenly, involuntarily, and she opened her eyes, glanced up. A pretty Italian stewardess looked on with eyes that admitted she’d been admiring their love for more than a few seconds. The stewardess smiled gently, her eyes approvingly warm, and her cheeks glowing with a gently fresh flush.

Thirteen gracefully pulled away from Twenty-Six and took his left hand in a fluid motion as uncomplicated as as the ocean’s waves pulling away from the seashore. Thirteen smiled slowly, easily, her cheeks and lips now painted several shades brighter than the stewardess’.

Twenty-Six’s gaze shifted from Thirteen’s face to the window for brief moments, his mind assessing the undesired pause. He turned his head towards the stewardess, lifting his eyes only enough to peripherally appraise the situation.  His jaw tensed and he fixed his gaze on the seat in front of him. His heart was exclusively Thirteen’s; and he was visibly annoyed at the disturbance. Thirteen’s thighs shifted under her skirt and Twenty-Six’s tension eased a fraction, redirected. His mind focused distantly, flicked through all of the things he would do to Thirteen if only this damned stewardess would leave.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, but we’re preparing for departure,” the stewardess explained, glancing down at Twenty-Six’s face in an attempt to catch his unyielding gaze. Failing, her face flushed lightly and she shifted her eyes to Thirteen.

Thirteen smiled warmly at the girl and thanked her. Thirteen’s thumb lightly brushed the inside of Twenty-Six’s tensed thumb as the as she spoke; the stewardess smiled apologetically and walked away.

Thirteen moved her fingers to lay flat under Twenty-Six’s, then slipped her fingers between his and squeezed gently. His face had hardened slightly, his eyes narrowed. His hand tightened on hers fractionally, a hint of possessiveness breaking free.

“Why didn’t we stay at home?” he grumbled.

Thirteen’s lips curled into an entertained smile and she laughed. “You silly man. Because you wanted to show me that tiny island you love.” Thirteen’s eyes danced merrily as she watched for his bitter expression to fade.

Twenty-Six turned and looked into Thirteen’s merry eyes. His lips relaxed into a grin, her joy and love infecting him once again.

He shook his head lightly, like shaking off the dust of ages from his mind. His gaze fell again to her flowing skirt and he released her hand carefully. Twenty-Six leaned towards Thirteen and kissed her lips lightly.

“Right,” he uttered, slipping a warm hand beneath the light fabric at her knee, ripples of goosebumps raised in the wake as his fingers traced a line from her bare thigh to her hip.

Photo ©2016 MLM