The Singing Butler

I live in a world of heartbreak… I just seem to be more creative when I’m in some kind of emotional distress.-Jack Vettriano

There Tracy and I stood in the gallery gazing at the original painting of The Singing Butler. We held hands. Because that made us feel closer. We smelled the salt in the air. We felt it on our skin, and in our hair. We could hear the sound of the surf in our ears. We saw the maid and the butler with the umbrellas, but we held none. We reveled in the rain. The sweet mist that covered our skin with the sea salt in the air. We saw the couple dancing, and their embrace. We couldn’t see her face, but we knew she was ravishing. For how could a man, a simple man in morning clothes want to dance with her on the beach, in the rain? His love for her must have been immeasurable.

So there Tracy and I stood. And felt what they felt. And knew the love that those two dancers knew. For we felt it ever day with the men that loved us. How we wished to be that ravishing, dark haired woman. But then, we already were.

As the Inferno Smolders

She stood there, dipper in hand, drinking the endless supply of water from the Artesian well as she watched her ex-lover burn.

She slaked her thirst, while his skin melted and he screamed in agony.

She became more satisfied with each swallow of the precious fluid.

He begged for a few drops, to end his suffering and stop the pain.

She enjoyed watching him writhe too much, and she would not give in.

She regaled in his pain. Enjoyed watching him burn.

The scent of his burning flesh didn’t even effect her. Didn’t make her nauseated. She thought it would, but she found she savored it.

With her thirst quenched, she places the dipper back on the handle of the ancient stone fountain.

His screams have reduced to agonizing moans, yet she feels no remorse.

She stands by the ancient fountain and removes her clothes.

She walks down the steps, and settles her body under the water, with just her head breaking the surface.

He keeps burning, and moaning, but she pays no mind to it.

Soon what was once his body is now only embers.

In her nakedness she stands up, and goes to the pocket of her jeans.

She finds her cigarettes, places one between her lips, leans over what once was his body and says, “May I have a light?”

*Sometimes even us funny writers have a bit of anger in us. Sometimes a friend gives us an idea for a story and we run with it. Thanks Tracy for the idea. I’m glad you liked it.*