Amanda looks beautiful in that jeans pinafore, the honey brown of her face shining with that soft sleek translucence of oil. Her hand flies to the black choker circling her neck; she clutches it, her pupils dilating. I think have had enough of people stare at me with round eyes for one full day, so I go ahead to recite the sentence I repeated in my head over and over again on the way here till it started to sound right. Trust Chantelle, she won't come with me even when I begged her. In my experience, an extra person makes for easier conversations and less awkwardness. I practically groveled at that chap's feet; she wouldn't budge. Some much for Bro-code. "Hey, Amanda, afar? You weren't—". She didn't even let me finish. "What are you doing here?" She whispers. Good question. An even better answer: I let bloody Abe talk me into coming to your house. "I just decided to come—". "How did you know the way to my house?". If sh

The voice beyond the chestnut brown door reverberates with the same sonorously sweet huskiness I fell for a month ago. Still, it is different, more controlled. It is like steam; tepid and everywhere. If Amanda's voice had feet and it could on walk on water, this is exactly what its footsteps would sound like. "This is the eyeglass from the clinic. Try them on a d check if it improved anything. Remember to take the drugs we bought. Two in the morning. Two at night. Okay?". She doesn't reply immediately, and although she says "Yes Daddy" sweetly after half a second, I smell the terseness in that nanosecond, amplified and velvety, and it eroded the silence into a chasmic void. Next, i hear the slap of shuffling foot, going in the opposite direction, away from my position. I hear her barefoot sweep against the face of the tiles when she steps back to shut the door. Then the slapping sound stops, and returns to the door. My head is on fire, and I am wondering how he saw me,

Democritus, this old philosopher of the classical era propounded the Atomist theory. He argued that everything there was that existed on our dew washed dune of a planet was formed primarily by a rare convergence of atoms. He believed that these atoms where colourless, transparent bodies of varying shapes and sizes and weights; the purest of which were made up of fire. People didn't believe him. They didn't believe him the same way they didn't believe Leonardo Da vinci who imagined men could one day fly. After Amanda's exploring fingers have ignited a sure trail of wild fire in every fibre of my being, I feel inclined to believe Democritus. Her kisses are feathery like a brush of paint against a canvas, yet each one burns. Between my eyes, at the slim drawbridge of my nose. Tenderly on the valley between my nostrils and upper lip. On my lips. My eyelids seem to have lost the power to unseal themselves. They tilt and flutter and quiver, and the only thing in sight is the

It's past six when I get home. The house is as quiet as it always is. Only the rustling of the crawling plants at the fence can be heard. Daddy is at his usual spot, cuddled between the two ends of the long couch. He eyes me vehemently but doesn't say a word. For that I am gateful. He grunts in answer after I have greeted him, then goes back to listening to the news at six on his trusty radio, eyes closed, blissed out. He nearly looks peaceful, I swear. I had already braced myself for the tirade, so when it didn't come it is replaced by a suprised soothing relief. I ambled into my room as fast as fast goes and shut the door before he can change his mind. That night, I do not soak my clothes in a bucket of detergent water and wash it off in the bathroom how I normally do. I set it u on the nail on which I hang my backpack and I breathe the underlying perfume of clean grass shimmering above the spicy smell of use. Amanda on me. Perfection in itself. There was no electrici

 It's past six when I get home. The house is as quiet as it always is. Only the rustling of the crawling plants at the fence can be heard. Daddy is at his usual spot, cuddled between the two ends of the long couch. He eyes me vehemently but doesn't say a word. For that I am grateful. He grunts in answer after I have greeted him, then goes back to listening to the news at six on his trusty radio, eyes closed, blissed out. He nearly looks peaceful, I swear. I had already braced myself for the tirade, so when it didn't come, fear  is replaced by a suprised soothing relief. I ambled into my room as fast as fast goes and shut the door before he can change his mind. That night, I do not soak my clothes in a bucket of detergent water and wash it off in the bathroom how I normally do. I set it on the nail on which I hang my backpack and I breathe the underlying perfume of clean grass shimmering above the spicy smell of use. Amanda on me. Perfection in itself.