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Crow: 100 Followers

📸Unique

     ‘Unique! Guess what day it is today?’

     ‘Sunday the 12th of July.’

     ‘But Unique, guess what day it is today?’

     ‘I’ve just guessed.’

     ‘Try again!’

He opens the blinds in my bedroom and although it’s 0444 the sky is pitch black.

I blink a few times and then rub my eyes.

     I noticed his sapphire blue eyes are gleaming now, Crow is happy. Elated in fact. I slip out of bed and say, ‘what happened the sun?’

     ‘Unique, don’t you know what day it is today?’

     ‘Crow, sweetie, I’ve already told you – Sunday the 12th of July 2020’

I then wink at Crow and head into the bathroom. I’m guessing I’m imagining the blackness outside. Maybe the time is wrong, and I’ve been woken up in the middle of the night? Either way, something is off today.

I brush my teeth.

I squeeze a large portion of coconut shower gel onto my navy-blue washcloth and wash away the night before.

A fine ballad of tweeting reverberates through our home and shakes the blueberry candle, just a little.

I dry off, dress and apply the perfect layer of Ruby Woo by Mac on my lips.

I enter the kitchen and look around for Crow. He’s not here – he’s usually eating bagels by the time I finish getting ready. I glance outside and see that it’s pitch-black. I check my watch and see the time is 0722. The sun is usually out by now.

I walk cautiously out into the hallway and slowly open the front door. The sweet song from above is utterly divine. I’m looking up and above my house is a? Well, what looks like a giant-size sheet of? Black. I walk down the driveway and hum along with the blackness above me. I recognise this tune, only I’ve never heard it in this manner. Piano Sonata No. 14 Beethoven

The shape above me looks like a triangle, off in the distance I see sunlight and at the very front of this black triangle, I notice a glint of blue.

The blue moves forward, separating itself from the shape. And there I realise Crow has grown – at a guess, he’s 3 metres long and his sapphire blue eyes are the size of Granny Smith apples.

He swoops down toward me, shouting, ‘UNIQUE GUESS WHAT DAY IT IS?’

I smile as he lands right beside me, his jet-black feathers blowing the last few shower droplets out of my sapphire blue braids. I stroke his left-wing and whisper, ‘we now have 100 followers!’

Crow squawks to the black plume above and that’s when I see a murder of 100 crows breakaway from one another and release blue sparkly words of love and appreciation.

They then disperse and fly away in different directions, across our universe.

Crow and I stand at the end of our driveway and salute all of you!

Thank you.

Love

Crow & Unique

Featured

Exit Sasha – A Short-story by Unique

Written by Unique

Exit Sasha

     ‘Sasha, you should use a saucer for dinner. No rice, no chicken, just have salad no salt.’

     ‘Why?’

     ‘Well, can’t you see that you’re gaining weight?’

My mother removes the plate of Chicken, rice, roast-potatoes, and sweet corn from my hands. Places it on the kitchen counter. Then serves up one lettuce leaf, one slice of tomato, and two paper-thin slices of cucumber. No salt. She hands me back what she boastfully referrers to as Sunday roast.

     ‘There you go Sasha, eating in moderation will have you as slim and trim as me in no time.’

     ‘But I’m not fat.’

     ‘Sasha, darling normal women your age are a lot smaller. When I was your age twenty years ago, I always ensured that I ate healthily. None of these alcohol-fuelled, kebab filled weekends. Maybe you should sign up to that gym in town, its affordable and open twenty-four hours a day.’

     ‘Mother, you know that I don’t drink alcohol and I’m not keen on kebab.’

     ‘I’m sorry darling, so that wasn’t you on Facebook last night, with that misshapen girl outside Bill’s kebab shop? Hash-tag take-away selfie, wasn’t that the caption?’

      ‘I was holding Stephanie’s food; Lorna thought it would be funny to pose outside Bills.’

     ‘Well, Sasha, I’ve been telling you for months now. But if you want to continue eating yourself into an early grave, then go-ahead! I suppose I can arrange for a bigger plot to be created to accommodate you.’

I feel tears peering out at my mother. I’m hot. This kitchen is getting hotter, I need to get out of here. I place the meagre portion of salad on the kitchen counter. Watching my mother smiling. Perhaps content that her advice is supposedly penetrating its way to, my last remaining intelligent brain cell instructing me not to eat.

     ‘I’m not saying that you’re Fatso, from the movie Casper, Sasha. I just wonder if you’ve ever picked up a copy of Vogue. Don’t you even aspire to look better?’

I’m too angry to respond; I turn away and retreat upstairs to my bedroom.

You’re Fine if Refined

I close my door and lock it. I turn on my iPod docking system search for Mariah Carey, and press play on Cry Baby, singing alternate lyrics every-time. It’s becoming a ritual.

     Late at night, like a little child wandering around, with my sweatpants on, in my black plastic bag…

     I turn and size myself up to the floor-length oak-framed mirror, interesting gift from Mother. For a moment, I close my eyes and inhale. I see black. I picture an ideal Sasha; she looks like Beyoncé’s alter ego Sasha Fierce. Slim with sun-kissed skin, big bright eyes, long slender legs, tiny waist only twenty inches. Sasha Fierce is sexy, every man wants her, and every woman is compelled to compliment her. I open my eyes and exhale. I see my big brown, dull eyes, my curves minutely visible through my black sweat-pants.

     ‘But you’re an average weight? Are you sure? What is that hanging from your waistline? Maybe that’s puppy-fat? Yes, you’re a fat bitch, just like mother keeps telling you.’

Slowly I remove my fat hiding, black, protecting clothing, tossing them to the side of my mirror. Unclasping my bra, my eyes record a mental image of the imprints left behind. Years of denial weaving its way into my shoulders, underwire impressions over-lapping impressions upon both breasts. Finally, I remove my knickers, a very cosy size 18. Here I stand in my rarely ever seen form, crying at the Sasha staring back.

     Mariah Carey continues to sing, oblivious to my imminent need for food in my life. I tip-toe and reach up, just above my stained oak wardrobe clutching onto Stanley. I resume my position facing myself. A clear shapely over-eater stares back, craving some of mother’s beautifully prepared Sunday roast. I close my eyes; inhale breathing in that succulent seductive scent of roast chicken. I see myself as Sasha Fierce. Exhale reopening them with Stanley clenched tightly within my right hand, I’m ready I can do this. Tensing my body, I examine my shameful exposed appearance from head to toe.

     ‘Go on Fatso, mimic Bernini, chisel yourself into a baroque sculpture then go and stand in the middle of Fontana Dei Quattro Fumi, and admire the world standing in awe at your beauty.’

     At first, I don’t feel the initial kiss of the blade against my skin or the marriage between old flesh and Stanley. I feel excited at the exhilarating thought that in a short time I’ll be brand new. I carve the fat off better than Bill with his minuscule portions of kebab every Saturday night. Starting with my right thigh, eagerly tending to the left, I start singing along with Mariah, which makes it easier to ignore my pain.

Late at night like a little child, exploring life at home, in my refined form with stilettos on, walking around so tall…

I bring Stanley up to my face, his shimmer of afternoon sunshine glowing from the tip as a gift to my double chin. Highlighting imperfection and with thoughts of perfection in mind, I slice away my double chin, dice off my chubby-cheeks, and with ease scale back my meaty neck that holds all of this fat upright. I stare down as crimson oozes out of both thighs. I look at the pounds of fat now divorced from my body, at rest by my feet, pure satisfaction. I pinch the over-hang of my waist with my left hand, and edge round my excess swiftly with Stanley. ‘Late at night…’ Pain shoots through my lower abdomen. I glance at my fat-free reflection, but before I could complete my new wash-board mid-section, I collapse right over the heap of freshly trimmed wholesome kebab.

May Sasha Rest in Peace

There she is peacefully at rest…

     ‘Inhale Think of that long winding path at the end, you arrive at your personal peaceful place. Life is too short to live regretfully. Relax you’re safe there, no one can harm you, release negative chi skyward.’

     ‘…Three, two, and one Sasha exhale and rise.’

I open up my eyes, a house sparrow sings right over me. ‘Bow your head, and Inhale Sasha.’ I caress the grass that surrounds me. ‘Look up, and exhale Sasha.’ Taking my time, I sit up. Outside is so beautiful, Kibbles my neighbours’ kitten purrs up beside my feet, I feel his little heartbeat.

     ‘Thank you, you were great today Sasha. You’ll reach your target weight in no time. Shall we say Saturday at 8am?’

     ‘Yes, thanks, Mark.’

My new personal trainer Mark Lincoln compliments me further, places my diet plan for the week on the garden table, then leaves. For a while, I take in my surroundings, staring up at the sky, baby-blue with mild hints of cyan complimenting the life that lives beneath it. Life goes on with or without Sasha…

Fierce and Flammable

5 O’clock naturally, I wake up. The scent of Mothers bacon attempts to lure me down. But no, I don’t need that. I climb out of bed and open both windows. I admire the vixen and her cubs scanning the garden before venturing out further, in search of breakfast. A squirrel races across our washing-line, hurrying to retrieve a tiny morsel of dog food that it dropped seconds ago. I turn facing my oak bookcase, pulling out all the diet books; Janet Thompson, Think More Eat less; Kimberly Willis, The little book of diet help; Robert Ashton, The life plan. Gathering my over-priced collection of diet magazines too, ranging from Weight Watchers, Women’s Health, and Slimming World. (I have issues dating back to January 2012). Finally, from the very top of my almost junk-free bookcase, I remove a large container of acai-berry weight-loss pills. Seven purse-friendly boxes of Senokot tablets, and the thirteen takeaway menus, that I placed here so that my mother wouldn’t notice. I throw them all into my wash-basket. Picking up my remote I select repeat, play increasing the volume Cry-baby starts to soothe me once more. I grab my overused black Pauls Boutique shopper bag, and empty my wardrobe of everything that’s black, excessively loose, and surely anything that suggests I like to hide my curves. ‘On my tippy-toes, so that Mother won’t know that I’m delighted with my bootyful body.’ I smile, and toss the bag into the wash-basket, and head downstairs, outside into the garden. No sign of the vixen, her cubs are now silent. A wood pigeon perches on the plum tree, awaiting my next move.

     I empty the contents of my wash-basket into the incinerator, pulling it down the path to a better position. I remove the box of matches that I grabbed on my way out. Setting alight eight years of stubborn fat, my history. Tears escape my eyes. I’m hot, so I remove my sweatpants, ill-fitting black sweater, and cosy Bridget Jones styled knickers throwing them into the flames. My vision is blurred drowning in relief; I sing in loving memory of the old Sasha Walking around alone, on my tippy-toes…nothing ever has to be perfect.

Here I stand for the world to see, I am Sasha.

Enter Sasha

It’s a warm Sunday afternoon in March. Mother has prepared roast lamb, roast potatoes and a selection of seasonal vegetables. Oh and gravy, I love gravy.

She then places two equal-sized plates on the kitchen counter, and serves up dinner; two slices of lamb; two small roast potatoes; two sticks of asparagus; three slices of carrot; and one large floret of broccoli.

     ‘May I have a bit more lamb please, Mother?’

     ‘Well, I suppose one more piece won’t do any harm.’

She begins to carve again. Slicing off the smallest piece of lamb, I’m guessing 2 inches long and 2 millimetres thick. Smiling, she places her generosity on my plate motioning towards the gravy-boat, she pours a faint drizzle over dinner. Then with a sarcastic remark, she says.

     ‘You’ve now got enough to feed a zoo.’

Closing that sentence with a little laugh, mother hands me my plate and picks hers up then heads to the dining-room. I follow her taking a seat directly opposite her. I bite into this succulent, tongue tantalising nit-bit of roast lamb, and glance up.

     ‘Thank you, Mother.’

     ‘No need to thank me, dear, I’m your mother and mothers always know best.’

I glance down at my reflection on my knife. I see my big bright brown eyes, high model type cheekbones, my long slim neckline, and I see my beautiful lips…my beautiful smiling lips. I make a mental note about how sexy my body feels in the new red fitted size 12 peplum dress that mother bought for me from Topshop last week.

I’m happy. Welcome back, Sasha.

I’m Here

For myself.

Not your wealth, or your abilities to be stealth. Until you need milk.

I’m here for Unique.

Not your lifestyle. Not your soap-opera. Until you need a dose of Motiv8

I’m here for my fuckin prospects. My bag, my flow, my energy. Until you need reminding. In case you need refreshing.

F5

F5

F5

I’m here for our universe.

My soul.

My heartbeats.

My love.

My children.

My Lil Unique.

My emotions.

My words.

My experience.

Until you fade away.

Crows here for your last heartbeat. I loved you once, I undoubtedly will say.

I’m here.

Polyfilla

Polyfilla

‘Commonly used to fill in gaps. Like cracks in walls or gaps made by rats’ – Knowledge Centre

I’m not here to fill in the parts your partner lacks.

You chose that.

You chose that over Unique.

I was disappointed at the time, fast forward I’m now fine.

Above the line is what you’ll see. Below my waist you’ll never kiss.

I don’t exist to prop you up on what ‘your partner lacks.’

Face facts!

You mask the crap that smothers your back. Like the previous one – you allow pathways up your spine and holes in your heart.

I can’t fill either of those aspects.

I’m not a ‘partner-alternative’ when you feel lonely, upset, hurt or in pain.

You insert mind-games.

I’m not defined by my name.

I’m not defined by your one-dimensional perception of my purpose.

I won’t lie down for you to cover up my glow with nonsense.

Polyfilla

A great tool for things with gaps, carved out by rats.

Polyfilla

When did I share what I wanted with you?

What way did you care?

Why did you lie to yourself?

How do I know your motive so well?

Who did you think you were back then?

Polyfilla.

The mixture dries up.

The crumbs fall.

The vacuum sucks it up.

The bag of dust is discarded.

The new look is better. (Ish.)

What I Want

What I want?

I want you to sweeten my days.

I miss what we once shared and had wished profusely that it never went away.

Our visit to that café was an experience I must say.

One that warms my soul on a cold summer’s day.

Over time I’ve wanted to reach out and say, ‘hey!’ But situations occurred and life swept me away.

What I want?

Is to kiss you, forever and forevermore.

I often dream you’ll arrive after midnight, with 3 taps lightly on my door.

Frequencies wrapped me up and tore away unfaithful thoughts. My mind calls them back and my heart always applauds.

I sometimes feel like a fraudulent existing life form, because if I’m honest and if our universe permits, I would freeze us in the eye of a love-storm…What I want?

What I want? Is to never miss you, because you’ll be here within my reach.

I want to hear your voice up close; I miss those long nights – just you and I.

Each second spent with you was both a curse and a blessing. And if I’m honest with all involved, I’ve understood a painful lesson.

What I want?

I want to feel your arms hold me tight, I want to kiss you goodnight and I want to hear you whisper, ‘everything’s going to be alright!’

I never imagined we’ll fall out and have silent fights. Ones where I feel, and I type and I write what’s black and what’s white. Feelings bite through my wrists like I might stop and…

What I want? Is to understand you. I don’t know you. I’ve never met you.

I want to like you.

I want to write with you.

I want to stand height to height with you.

I want to cite life with you.

I want to make delights with you.

I want to spend the night with you.

Who are you exactly? Where on earth did, we meet? How did you find me again? Why did you return?

What I want?

I want to set the world on fire and soar through the night sky.

I want to return to our universe, to be that sapphire blue star and die.

The Dictator

Do this Unique. Do that Unique

Fuck you, fuck you, not you. Fuck you.

I’m obedient.

You order I’ll obey sometimes.

I’m loyal.

You trust me, I’ll always be here.

Unique! I need you.

Unique! I need you.

Unique! I fucking need you to help me and lift me.

Unique! Are you fucking listening? You ungrateful fucking bitch. Fuck you.

I fucking hate you.

At 0400 I walk through my city, yes! My city, I think about your face, your beautiful face.

Then I look down at my side whisper to you, ‘Ssh! My city is still sleeping’

I walk and I wonder. I stop and turn my head – your mouth is still open. Your beautiful face now the fine hue of red.

Crow sleeps peacefully upon my right shoulder.

He’s proud and I’m so proud of Crow. This leash that keeps your head bobbing along behind us, was imported from Germany.

We all have attachments.

Decapitating your beautiful face from your strong body, was the finest detachment of our time.

It’s 0433, Crow and I are walking our bitch.

Woof!

I

I don’t think twice

Lemon slice on ice is one of the things that I like

I post what I like!

My blog ain’t defined by all the things in my life.

I write how I write.

If you don’t like, click unfollow and no goodbye

I ain’t got the time

Don’t sleep with a watch on, so these moments fly by.

I create all the time

Walk with a notepad, to record parts of life.

I’m so divine.

My name is Unique and I heard this online.

You need me in your life.

I’m evaluating options and need to issue a few fines.

I don’t pray at any time.

God never answers his prayers soak in some brine.

I know how to mime.

Like Charlie Chaplin imma mime through time.

S/O to Creative Writers! ☺️