The Tummy Cat
The identical white headstones, aligned with mathematical precision, swept ahead of her, a geometrical tide of mechanical slaughter. She had walked up the small hill, through a tilting meadow that oozed the heavy perfume of a sweltering summers day, a clogging sweetness that rose, entwined and entranced from the rainbow of colours scattered across the shimmering straw-green grass. The massed choir of grasshoppers, bees and other assorted insects had serenaded her every step, a buzzing rustling and clicking cacophony of sound that played to the rhythm of her laboured footsteps. As she reached the brow of the hill the pain reminded her of his presence, her tummy cat had his claws out. They covered the entire hilltop, eight thousand four hundred and twenty four same date-stamped tragedies shining brilliant white. A grotesque hedgehog sculpture of wasted youth. She felt at ease, a warm blanket of understanding enveloped her as she hunted for her great-granddaddy.

Damaged Artist - Woman of Power - WOP

Medium Rare

She glances demurely at the poinsettia, whilst gathering her pernicious intuition, assessing the situation and opportunities like a google beta-app on her new laptop. She enjoyed all forms of pain, even the exquisite slowness of arid botanical suffocation. She decides. An angel-writing with the delightful fair trade pencils and superior Basildon Bond, followed by a traditional Tarot - her deftness of folding the cards into a series of, feigned, utter randomness an art form.

The desperate believer sits before her, clutching her psychologically engineered business card and wearing his pitiful hope like a cloak of drowned kittens. She sees it all.

Clutching the cheap silver trinket, fabricated as Celtic adornment with cryptic symbolism, she pretends it is endowed with the priceless optimism of love. Despite the emotional ramparts, constructed with dye, disorientating herbs and a mask of grain and grape, this bit always made her queasy. It made her feel like a noise that had a tangible negative substance, especially when it was about their mummy.

A shard of memory, invariably, arrives. A dusty, ' Dear God, DUSTY', radio still delivering 'by medium wave - ho hum',she thinks, the home service to an unappreciative mummy.