His eyes shone in the darkness

His hair was thick and black

His skin as white and soft as snow

My lover had come back

 

I saw him at the window

I threw it open wide

I bared my breast for his embrace

As he silently stepped inside

 

He glided over towards me

His smile so full of sex

I melted like a candle

He’ll get what he expects

 

He bent his head down to me

Seeking the throbbing, pulsing vein

I fed my lover every night

To watch him live again

 

His fangs sank deep into my neck

I arched my back with joy

I felt my blood flow into him

My undead , handsome boy.

 

 

 

 

I am a decimal point. My worth or worthlessness hinges on my agility, my position on the mathematical calculation. I hold past, present and future in the depths of my numerical magic. I adore travelling, distance not measured by miles or metres, slight shift to the left I’m near, shift to the right I’m heading far.

I resemble an inconsequential blot on a pristine white page, perhaps lost or forgotten in the midst of a complicated formulae or equivalent equation. No spidery sign or flowery figure necessary to establish my existence.

Dot on a page, chalk mark on a board, I’m easy, but ignore my presence at your peril.

Place me in the wrong position and pennies in your purse could become pitiably poorer. Shift me several slidings eitherside and that delayed detonation delivers disaster.

Omit me occasionally and oceans overcome the populated planet. I am ten times mightier than the minus sign, one thousand times more popular than the plus, tens of thousands times more diabolical than the division and a million times mighter than a megatron.

I am Legendary! I am Legion! I am a Decimal Point!

 

 

Shuffling slowly forward, spirits spiralling downwards I thought WHY ME?

Shoving me on, my tormentor whispered torturous threats.

“Don’t think about escape. I’ve been waiting for this for too long.”

“Please don’t make me” I appealed to her hidden humanity.

I was mercilessly manhandled and pulled into the brightly lit building. Bodies filled the room, old bodies, cackling, crowing and cavorting obscenely. A traffic jam of zimmer frames slowed my progress, perilously close to my unguarded shins. Greyheads locked in earnest conservations, wicked whispers and covert glances directed towards rival groups. Armed and dangerous with treacherous teapots and bucket sized handbags, this gaggle of grannies, painted and powdered, clothed in crepes and crinoline converged en masse and like lascivious lemmings vanished through an open door.

My ordeal was imminent. I was trapped. My kidnapper caught my arm and trailed me towards the torture chamber. The noise was deafening as voices vied to be heard, until individual hearing aids were turned on, then blessed silence.

Leering, lurid likenesses, on tee shirts, bags, hats and walls had me longing for escape. I felt sick, saddened for my suffering sisters. Deluded and desperate they must be, elderly escapism combined with misplaced maternal notions led them here.

I wanted out! Too late!

Lights dimmed, anticipatory silence, broken only by the falsetto sound of clacking false teeth and hip replacement hinges creaking, knee joints clapping closed and miscellaneous other bodily brackets. Anaesthetised with ruby red wine and crisply chilled Chardonnay my despair downsized somewhat.

Aarrgh! I jerked awake, in response not only to a prod from my persecuting partner but also to a whiny wailing issuing from centre stage. Dread and revulsion revived my senses and my depression deepened. Would I have to endure two hours of this prancing, pitiful, person? Singing with a sugary sweetness that assailed my senses and pained my inner ear. I cringed and curled up, sinking deeper into my seat, terrified of being recognised and ridiculed, robbed of my respectability. My kidnapper clapped with the rest of the pathetic pensioners, her attention never wavering enough to permit my escape. Seconds suffocated me, minutes murdered me and the hours hung heavily on my heart. The final fading notes from the boring balladeer, but the audience applause was delayed. Some fans had fallen asleep, some hearing aid batteries had failed and continuous trips to the toilets had turned into tours.

“Isn’t he sexy!”

The final straw! I hit my feeble minded friend with the programme, swore never to accompany her to a Daniel concert again and swooped off to find a strong bottle of alcoholic forgetfulness.

I’m an Elvis fan! Get me out of here!