So, I have a doppelganger at work – well, sorta, kinda, okay, probably not. She’s this chick down south in the very, very, snotty corporate world of pretentious Sydney who is beyond perfect and wonderful and never a bad word is spoken to her or about her because, well, she’s perfect. I’ve never met her. I doubt if I would be deemed good enough because I am not worthy of such magnificence but I’m told by all that she is wondrous, amazing, selfless, probably will find a cure for cancer while balancing a ball on her nose, dialing the phone with one toe while bluebirds fly joyously around her head as she sings in a sweet, harmonious, trilling voice that soothes all men….apparently. She does everything and beyond the call of duty of normal people and has started to take on my job which was hardly a surprise to me. Frankly, the sooner she does and I’m handed a redundancy the better. But back to the paragon. She’s perky and positive and everything is beautiful and wonderful and la-la-la-la-frigging la-la. The only flaw I can pick at is she sounds like a butch bloke eating a tough horse from the hoofs in and I’m thinking, despite being so wondrous, that’s why she is such a doyen (you could also insert 'suck up') to all the anal, gold bracelet wearing stuffed shirts in their insulated corporate world. They think she’s a bloke. “Sylvia can do this.” “Let Sylvia do that.” "Sylvia has already done that.” “Sylvia is wonderful.” I say we need people like Sylvia the world – the suck ups and wondrous, the politically correct and super-duper-troopers. Good old Sylvia. I say let her do stuff. What the hell. Call me when you’re ready to pay me out. I need to delete vital files and 'acquire' stationery…
So, I was looking for an image for a book cover. I wanted a larger, curvaceous, real woman. When I put the word ‘curvaceous’ through one royalty free data base, I got a bunch of thin women with large boobs. Hmmm. I then put ‘voluptuous’ in and everyone had large asses but no one was actually a larger sized woman. They were all very pretty, thin with either boobs or arses sticking out. I put in ‘fat’. I got frumpy looking women who were pulling faces – for whatever reason – making them all look demented and less than attractive and a vast percentage of them were stuffing food into their mouths. Total, stereotypical bullshit of course and no wonder women feel the pressure to conform to what society thinks is normal when it fact there is no normal. Truth in advertising? There is none. Real women = real bodies. Don’t try and force feed us non-reality for mass conformance. Piss off. We're over it.
But there is another who carries the same tattoo. As far as
the dark woman is concerned, Seamus is hers. She will stop at no lengths to get
him back. The other woman? Collateral damage.
And then there is the hand of fate and the power of an
ancient sword. The one who wields it in the land of Twilight
will win the man. Does true love have a hope of beating pure evil this time?
Seamus stood for a moment and watched Sian sleep. He caught his breath, as he always did, when
he looked at her. They could have been parted for days, hours or even seconds
yet it wouldn’t matter. Each time it was like the first time of attraction and
hope. No other woman called out to his soul as she did. He was in love with
her. It was simple, true, real. It was a love requiring nothing more than being
close to each other and reveling in the sanctuary each provided the other. He
was very tempted to go back to bed, to take her in his arms once more and drive
Sian crazy with what she needed. He’d never
met a woman who enjoyed being made to submit as much as Sian.
It drove him on to do crazy things to please her.
“But not yet.” He had to deal with someone he had
always known, one day, would become a problem. He turned from the woman he
loved and walked naked to the window and looked out. That it was cool, he
barely noticed. He had other things on his mind. It had been hard pretending
the simple conversation Sian had with him
about the woman she saw with the same tattoo as hers could have been just
anyone. He knew who she was.
Seamus saw a shape move in the darkness. He knew it
was her. The dark woman. Meredith. He blew out a breath. “This is so bloody
complicated,” he muttered softly, hearing Sian
murmur in response. He smiled quickly. That was the way with them. They were
attuned to react instantly to each other. “Hush, baby. All is well.” She sighed
and drifted off once more. Seamus rubbed at the pain in the back of his neck
where a tattoo exactly like Sian’s was scored
into his flesh. His had been done as a ritual. It was to do with family.
Tradition. Honor. It always burned when there was trouble.
The tattoo was a simple design. It was his family
crest dating back centuries. It was Celtic in origin and a knot made up of two
individual strands that could not be broken nor could a break or a join be seen
in each carefully inked line. It symbolized entwined souls destined to be
forever. It was what the McDonagher house was built on. Strong partnerships
with people who knew no fear. He looked over at Sian.
She was fearless. She was also the one he wanted. Meredith? She was so long ago
and he felt nothing for her.
“But she won’t let go.” And she had to. They both
knew it. Lust and infatuation was not the material the bound souls together.
Meredith was wild and exciting. Once she had fired his blood to the point of
frenzy. He hadn’t been able to get enough of her. Like a great hunger he craved
her to the point of madness. His great Aunt Cassiopeia had seen that and warned
“She’s not the
one for you.”
“But I feel so
alive with her.”
“Death and life
are very much alike, nephew. They’re opposite signs of the same coin yet one
cancels out the other and neither can sustain the other.”
“Oh but I do.
Passion can drive you mad. It makes your body wild with desire, your heart
pounds and you want to believe the one who drives you on is your soul mate
because only she could make you feel that way. But she isn’t. Soul mates are
more than just sex—and yes, nephew, I remember very well what sex is like.”
comes only once to a man. And oh yes, I’m sure you’ve thought yourself to be in
love with many but has one left you breathless?”
“Has a woman
stopped your breath and made you look at her like she was something you’d never
seen before and scared if you let her out of your sight she’ll be gone forever
and you’d perish because of it?”
dramatic to me.”
you haven’t met her yet so you don’t understand.”
Last night I barely slept a wink. I was moaning, twisting
restlessly in the sheets totally out of control, begging for release, needing so
much and yet knowing I had no say in what was happening to me. I wasn’t in
charge. I just had to submit and ride the crazy crest I was on until I could
let go and find release. For a moment, I considered what the neighbours must be
thinking. The bedroom window was open, a light breeze coming in through the
sheer curtains, only party cooling the heat of the moment as I panted and
moaned, twisting and promising anything and everything to my tormentor to let
me calm down and drift off, sated, at peace. But it was not to be. Some are
relentless. Some never let go until you’re a crying, whining wreck screaming at
the universe in a moment of complete physical breakdown swearing on all that is
holy that never again will I do 200 sit ups and be in this much pain.
Six pack stomach? Nah, just give me a bottle of champagne like any real woman.
Amarinda Jones believes anything is possible and sometimes just asking for the impossible will surprise someone enough that they will give it to you. Writing is like that. Put it out there and wait for a response. There is always the possibility you may fall on your arse but after all that’s what cellulite is for. Amarinda believes in taking chances, speaking her mind and aging disgracefully. Twenty years from now she plans on being the neighborhood witch that all the kids are scared of. But then, everyone has to have a hobby.
All written materials featured on this blog are protected under copyright. Any use of part or all of this material without the express written permission of the author is an infringement of personal creative property and subject to legal action.
Any story, discussion or any written word or thought on the Amarinda Jones blog does not represent any individual or group living, dead or the undead.
It is absolutely your right and duty of care to your own mental health not to read this blog. If you do read and continue to read the Amarinda Jones blog you do it at your own risk.