Random Ramblings

Palmira Haswell met Anne Bellenger at the dirty coffee place next to the barber’s shop with the cheap neon sign. Palmira Haswell was wearing a black skirt with a navy blue blouse and her hair was done in a neat pony tail. She looked about twenty, although her real age was probably over twenty-eight. Anne Bellenger was a redhead with very attractive features. Her rather huge breasts made her face look like a small heart shaped pendant with a pout. She worked as a model and her ad photos were frequently splashed between the classifieds in the popular Russian Newspaper in Warsaw. She had apparently earned a great deal of money on her last modeling trip to United States and returned back rich, and pregnant. The story went like this - She had a husband in California that she did not want to live with anymore, mainly because she did not want to live in the US anymore. She frequently traveled between Los Angeles, Paris, London and Warsaw (her hometown) on account of her various modeling a

I would never know why that night, after I accidentally found Anya’s passports, I returned to her bedroom and slept by her side the rest of the night. Man’s behavior defies reason at times. Perhaps I did not want to wake her up and argue in the middle of the night. Perhaps I was scared she might reveal something that I wasn’t prepared for. Perhaps I was just too tired. When I woke up, Anya was sitting by the bed, her wavy golden hair falling over the white sheet like a dreamy waterfall. The high window let in the morning light through the drapes, enough for the stark room to absorb some warmth and color. It took me a few seconds to recollect what had happened the night before as I tried to simultaneously decipher Anya’s focused look, directed at me. A gentle rustle with a book being pushed towards me resulted in me getting up and sitting up very straight on the bed; in a second I was prepared by instincts to be on my safeguard. She did not move a bit, stuck to her posture as i

She sang her song of the evening*, But then he gave a sigh. Her song, split into two. One- the flight of a Siberian bird, Unknown and endless. The other- Falls on smelly moist ground, Dead, before it could fly.

Anya, the Artemis Pungent smell of acetone mixed with the air readily as the spilled nail polish remover soaked the white linen bed sheet. The room was dressed in white. Stern, as snow that never melts. Regal, as pearls born from deep sea secrets. Silent, as sheets draping the dead. The carpet on the floor was white and plush, exuding an aura of luxury not at ease with the otherwise austere room. A large frame hung on one of the walls displaying a black and white photo of colorful flowers. "Shit" exclaimed Anya, before realizing that acetone evaporates quickly. She decided to drop the sheets at the cleaners tomorrow. She glanced at the spilled nail polish one more time, deeply annoyed that her clean white bedroom dressed like a bride, was no longer crispy clean. The room next to the bedroom was the study, which actually could be called the dark room. Heavy drapes the color of blue almost as dark as black keep sunlight away through the day. The walls adorned a few

Like a rose without water I will age deep vermillion and scentless. Your love I will keep like white envelopes from the past unopened under my sandal-scented bed. It is not memories that the mention of your name reminds. But a whole universe that I sometimes see when I sit and watch snow melt outside my window. Two drops of jasmine oil and two words later I remind myself this is only a poem and you distant, like a faraway place I want to visit. And say goodbye once again.