Twelve Days of Christmas

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A Partridge in a Pear Tree

She blushed lightly over her soup, pale creamy swirls which would follow the path of her spoon as she toyed with it, listening to him talk. He talked of growing up in the countryside, picking vegetables and summer fruits, riding horses across the countryside with his brother. She would occasionally slurp at the parsnip and onion soup, sampling it a little, the onions too strong for her tastes. He would chomp his way through rich round slices of sausage meats with orange sauce. She delicately sliced her main meal into fine slivers of roasted partridge meat, he ate pheasant and talked on about how wonderful the chef was, his fine reputation, the exquisite meats that were brought in from all over the countryside. She would listen as she tucked the slivers of meat into her mouth, savouring its tastes as the strands of meat split beneath her tongue before sliding akwardly down her throat. He talked about his business in the city, about some deal or other he was undertaking, how the social life in the city was full of energetic lights and entertainments. She spooned sweet liquored sauce into her mouth, carving up the poached pears into little segments and swallowing them with her eyes half closed, the exquisitely sweet taste almost choking her with delight. He talked of sweetness and how angelic she looked, the perfect cherub, with sparkling green eyes. She smiled sweetly as she carefully, slowly, hesitantly devoured her pears. He said he would plant her a rose bush one day. She said she would prefer a pear tree. He smiled and said he would plant both for her.

Two Turtle Doves

Frangipani blossoms and sweet jasmine and honeysuckle permeated the air, making it heady with rich summer perfumes. They sat beneath a bower of honeysuckle wrapped roses, overlooking a set of topiary carved swans at the ends of two fences, in the middle of both two topiary doves protruding, well clipped into shape. They'd spent the afternoon walking through the gardens after a light summer lunch in the courtyard cafe on scones with jam and cream. She would look over the roses and he would pluck one for her and tuck it behind her ear, the single thorn on its stem scratching her skin lightly and drawing a tiny bit of blood. He looked at the rose in her hair and smiled leading her further into the garden where they now sat overlooking its shaped garden beds all formally laid out, not a leaf out of place. They sat side by side their arms folded together watching. They wrapped their fingers into each others and smiled a little. They sat watching and entwined a little and made little coo cooing noises to each other, murmerings of love and sweetness cooing their forevers to each other in a parade of twitching affections.

Three French Hens

He led her over the Pont de Neuf bridge, looking down at the Seine. They walked to the Lourve and watched the Mona Lisa smile, they walked back and forwards whilst she continued to follow them with her stare. They climbed the Eiffel tower and looked over at the terraced roofs' of equal heights that sprawled around the city, not a tall building to be seen till far out where they then gathered in a ring around the old city. She looked down at the ground faint heartedly and he tried to show her a kid dropping his icecream. He took her to Notre Dame to show her the rose window, its panels of coloured glass only letting in a tiny fraction of the light that lay beyond. He lit her a candle too, a prayer for their future, she felt only the cathedrals dark shadows pressing against her and longed for sunlight again. He bought her flowers, red roses at Madeline's square and bought her a chocolate eclair to eat from the patisserie in St Germain-de-Pres. He pointed out how chic the French were, three femmes infront of them in haute corture with strutting tiny poodle dogs. He would take her then to a couturier and buy her whatever she wanted. She chose a classic black dress which he had held up to her with sparkling eyes that wished to please her.

Four Calling Birds

The phone had rung shrilly four times before she'd picked it up and answered, it was a polite gap she'd been told, a phone should always ring four times. His voice bleated into a sort of electronic pitch as he greeted her warmly with gushing comments of 'I'm missing you' or 'how have you been sweetheart' and 'how's the weather there'. She answered them back as best she good before the next one bleated out at her, her answers crackling and hesitant into the hard inhumane surface of the phone with its circular pitted holes from which she jabbered at and heard jabberings. Her fingers curled around the tubular springed cord that sort of fell across her lap, her fingers winding it up and round as though putting on concentric plastic rings. As her fingers toyed with the springs he talked to her about his day in the city, how busy New York is, how busy the office was, how crowded the streets were, how crowded the discussions in the office were. He told her how he'd have to take her there one day, show her the sights, walk in Central Park with her, wander down Fifth Avenue and buy her something at Tiffany's. He extolled to her the big breakfasts of waffles in the sidewalk caffeterias dripping with maple syrup and the pretezels being sold on street corners. He would send her some flowers from interflora, order them over the phone, would she like pink roses or red roses, she said she liked yellow, he would send pink. From that upper pitted circle pressed against her ear making it slowly warm and red from the pressure against it came all the noise of New York, he was there often, he would be there often, he had work there. She remained here, clinging onto a telephone listening to a distant voice, transfigured by electronic pulses across the world, when he said goodbye she did too and put the phone down quietly, as quietly as she had been when it had been held against the side of her face.

Five Golden Rings

His hands were clammy against her eyes, they pressed too hard against her skin and she struggled a little beneath them, if only he'd stop this ridiculous pretence. He finally did, after dragging her half way down the street and banging her blindly into the side of a door frame. She slowly opened her eyes to find him grinning at her and then pointing to a counter in a jewellery shop where there was laid out ten rings, five sparkled with diamonds, the other five were simple gold bands of various weights and thicknesses. He poked her a little in the ribs and winked, 'well which ones do you like', he pushed the first row forward, engagement rings, she ummed and erred a little, they ranged from a simple diamond that sparkled nicely to an over the top clustering of sparkling diamonds that looked like an overgrown lump of rock crystals. She settled her hand towards the simpler ones, the second one along, a sparkling white diamond flanked by two smaller champagne diamonds. He nodded then and picking it up presented it to her, a proposal emitting from his lips then, will you marry me, she nodded a little and looked around at the shop, too much gold and glittering for her liking, and then there were the roses, the shop had been filled with red roses. He had leapt forward then and kissed her on the cheek before pulling back and rubbing his hands together pushed forward the next row, five golden rings, which one shall I marry you in. Her fingers traced around each one, slipping each one on to try it for weight and size, the first one was light and delicate, a fine thread of gold around her finger, the next was wider but also light, the next was plain, of medium weight and width, the next one was wide and bulky looking, and the fifth was heavy, oh so heavy, she nodded at that one, its weight seemed somewhat appropriate, a heavy ring to bind her to him. As he handed over his credit cards to the balding man behind the counter, she choked on her tears, he smiled at her thinking it sweet of her to be so emotional, joyous tears he said as he wiped one away, she did not say how heavy she felt, a cage of golden rings around her now imprisioned heart.

Six Geese a Laying

She'd been shuffled around the whole day, from having her hair tizzed in unnatural positions, to finding herself wearing a contraption of lace and silk organza, the gown was heavy and wide, that she felt more like a goose than a princess. She was pushed along between rows of people and massive vases of clustered roses, stuttered after various words intoned at her and had light flashing blindly in her eyes repeatedly inbetween commands of 'smile'. She found herself swimming through more rows of people again, food put infront of her, a fat juicy goose with a rich wine sauce, the meat flecking off her fork and onto a tongue before brandy soaked fruit cake as her hand was taken up to help sluice through the layers of sugar frosted monstrosities covered in pink sugary roses, she was picked up and flung around the floor a bit, her feet tangled up in her cumbersome mass of lace and silk whilst music bombarded her ears. And then there was a little quiet, less people but still that jostling. His arms peeling the layers of silk and lace away from her, running along the sides of her flesh. Clasping her round sweet breasts and pulling her here and there. The sheets jumbled around her were white and crisp, starched stiffly they scratched against her frail pale skin. His breath hot against her face as he pressed down against her, consuming her in his lust. His limbs jarred against hers, she had not the strength to move them away. So much pushing and shoving and his groans in her ears, and her whimpering moans of despair. And then it was over, he rolled away and she lay staring at the ceiling, free to sleep in peace, wondering what had happened that day.

Seven Swans a Swimming

The water flowed across her skin, gently easing it into small rises of pores as her skin slowly grew colder as the water cooled around her. The water lapped within her ears, swirling down creating a veritable vortex of a sink pool within her head. The water lapped against her lips, a soft wet lover that threatened to choke her. It would swirl up her nose making her splutter a little and raise her head a little higher in the water. Her fingers edged along the sides of her hips then, pushing the water alongside her, her feet kicking out a little to propel her a little further down the length of the pool with its crisp blue green waters. The pool seemed as a grotto to her, the green and white tiles reflecting the water made her whole surroundings shimmer with those ripples. Her fingers would connect then with the sodden lycra of her swimming suit, the bikini her bought her of red roses against swan white, she slid her hands away again, back to her hips. She'd move her hands over her belly then, caressing the rise in it, trying to feel the swirling waters of her active womb. The life within her kicked a little as she kicked a small splash of water away, drifting closer to the deep end. Ducking her head down beneath the surface as she turned, she looked down through the layers of rippling water to the tiles, hazy and lost at the bottom of the pool.

Eight Maids a Milking

Tiny hands scratched at her breasts, flailing madly and striking her once across the chin, as she struggled to turn the small bundle of fleshy limbs over in her arms to let the baby feed. Then the tiny mouth had latched onto her raised pink nipple, little pink lips sucking with great ferocity. When the baby pulled away again, some milk leaked and dribbled down a bit. The baby quietened a little then, resting a little calmer in her weary arms. There were eight of them in the ward, all lined up in a row alongside the wall, tucked upright with blankets around them and their pillows fluffed up by their husbands. Around the bed were strewn gifts, tiny hand knitted jumpers, flowers with cards with cranes on them, baby toys and a rattle which her child seemed particularly fond of, using it as much as a weapon for attention then for self-entertainment. He had brought her flowers, yellow roses for youthful happiness and pink roses for their baby daughter. Eight of them, all sitting upwards with baby's suckling at their breasts or being rocked back and forth in their arms whilst discussing names in the room full of flowers and gifts. He said they should call her 'Rose', as it was their special flower. She handed the baby to him to hold for a little, taking a sip of the milk the nurse had brought in for her to drink, it slid akwardly down her parched throat as he cooed at his little Rose. She kicked a little then, starting up her wailing and flailing and he handed her back abruptly. She rocked her a little in her arms but the child seemed to sense it's mother's lack of real affection and continued its wailing. The cry set off the other babes, and her ears and nerves felt all the more frailer for the cacophony of cries, the constant wailing, rattlings, suckings and cooings. He kissed her goodbye then, as all the visitors departed, and she relinquished the babe to the nurse for awhile, sighing softly as the burden was briefly lifted. Her breasts hurt, heavy and swollen with milk, her body still wracked with the pains of being stretched and torn and yanked the night before. And her baby in the crib next to her bed kept up the orchestral sounds of rattlings and simpering cries, as she buried her head in the pillow, tears welling and leaking down her cheek.

Nine Ladies Dancing

Colour and flesh swirled infront of her eyes, a glimpse of bright blue, a blurring of brilliant yellow, a whiff of beautiful purples and pinks, a lungful of bodily red. His arm in hers, briefly, for one dance around the room, her green silk dress was taut around her body from the weight she'd gained since Rose. It was his annual Spring dinner and dance, the annual event of boasting and bitchiness. She liked the abstraction of the colours when they whirrled around the room, the rest faded away then. Then she was standing at the side again, sipping the bubbles that stung her mouth whilst watching, catching a disapproving frown in her direction, a couple of lowered voices whispering, 'how much weight has she put on', 'when I had my first I remembered to look after myself, to regain my former figure', 'aye she's letting herself go really'. He was standing elsewhere, in a group of suits talking about their latest financial wheelings and dealings, the trade prices that were going through the roof. She took another strong gulp of the champagne, biting back the feeling that she might choke on those bubbles of oxygen. He danced with her one more time, the swirl of abstract colours pleasing her eyes, before she excused herself to the bathroom. She splashed water on her fervered brow, taking a small gulp of water from her cupped hands as it streamed out from between her fingers, she repeated this several times before she gained enough water to quench her thirst. She slid the lipstick back across her lips, quickly brushed her eyelashes with some mascara and headed back into the room, glancing around for him. He was dancing closely to a woman in red, with a thin waist and smoothe tanned legs, and a daring cut dress that scooped down her back and sliced across her cleavage, he was smiling with a rose between his teeth, he saw her then and waved with a laugh upon his lips.

Ten Lords a Leaping

The door shut, a sort of thud of wood clanking back into its frame, he was going out again. The baby cried again, always crying, in the middle of the night she would drag herself out and tend to little Rose, he never did, he would always seem to suddenly start snoring when Rose started up and he would say if he was awake how much better she was at these things. She slid her fingers over the dust of the sideboard, leaving a trail of clean wood behind, her fingers a little murky with the dust still upon them. Her eyes were red, bleary from lack of sleep, she should tidy the house she knew, he would complain if she didn't, but her body ached too much. She would lie on the couch a little then, chewing her way through a packet of chocolate biscuits watching the daytime soap operas, the chocolate both soothed her hunger but left her throat thick and mucusy at the back. He would scowl at her days later and claim she was gaining weight. He worked more these days, working late into the evening, he'd stumble through the door with whiskey on his breath and wake the baby as he cumbersomely negotiated the shower before falling asleep on the other side of the bed. In the morning she would hold the milk carton shakily in her hand as she poured it over her cereal, she would ask him with a cracked voice where he had been, but he would leapfrog over her questions and land firmly in the accusary, 'why don't you look after yourself any more', 'why do let let the baby cry so much at night'. She would stir her soggy flakes of bran around with her spoon, the metal grating against ceramic in elongated sighs around the bowl, pushing the flakes in stubborn circles till they grew putrid at the bottom of the pool of souring milk. And as he turned and left for work he looked at the roses on the sideboard and shook his head at her, 'why do you let those roses always droop and rot in their vases, you should take more care of the gifts I bring you'

Eleven Pipers Piping

Her fingernails skipped over the silver surface, hopping over the crevaces and darting across its rises. Three tiny hollow cylinders in silver, dangling from a hook. She turned the solitary earring over in her fingers and held it up to her mouth, blowing once against the tiny ornamental pipes. A shrill piping sound that resembled something more akin to a spluttering of fingernails against a chalkboard emitted from it. She snorted a little in derision at its uselessness and stared at it with cool hard eyes. The phone piped loudly in her ear then, a shrill ringing reverberating around her. A woman's voice on the other end when she picked it up introduced herself as a colleague of her husbands, she thinks she might have lost an earring in his car on the way up to the conference centre the other weekend, might she have seen it. Her quiet flat voice replied that she had not, but she would keep her eye out for it and make sure it was returned to her if found, the voice gushed a couple of thankyous and how precious the item was too her and the two hung up again. Her eyes returned to surveying the object again, her fingernails picking at a spot of grime in the crevace between two of the pipe bits. As he walked through the door she stabbed the hook of the earring into her finger with a small cry as blood trickled out of it and held it aloft, skewed in amongst her flesh. He looked at it with shock, whether at seeing it, or seeing her with it, or just seeing it stabbed into her. She stepped backwards stuttering a little before backing akwardly into the bathroom. He began to stutter his explanations but they did little to stop the shrieking in her head or the shrieking of Rose in the room next door. Her spare fingers grabbed at it pulling it out then as she dropped it into the basin of the toilet and slammed her bloody hand on the flush. She ran forward then, tearing past him, to the lounge room, where the vase of drooping roses stood, grabbing them by the stalks and shaking them at him as the thorns imbedded in her hands, and he just looked at her then with a sneer, 'you're over reacting'.

Twelve Drummers Drumming

A steady bobbing up and down of helmets passed infront of their eyes, the occasional twirl of a silver stick managing to rise above the crowded hordes of hairy scalps. She eventually gave up trying to crane her neck to see anything and instead just listened to the brass instruments blasting away at their melodies. If she looked down she could see amongst the legs and feet the black boots of the marchers pounding up and down in steady progressive beats. She was growing tired and weary in the midday sun and she tugged at his arm that they should go home, they couldn't see anything after all. He scowled and marched off down the pavement as her steps scurried along behind. His voice boomed loudly in her ears, a mixture of shouts and curses at her impatience, his anger seethed behind him in an energetic wake that threatened to swamp her. They were walking through the park now, down the avenue of trees towards the fountain and the train station, away from the war memorial and the parade's path. Catching him briefly again she tugged at his arm for him to slow down, to stop, but he snarled and whirling struck her against the cheek. Her voice rang out as a high pithched squeal, screaming at the sudden shots of pain that lashed through her face, stung. His fists railing down against her to stop, once, twice, thrice, with every hit she stumbled back against one of the trees, her hip impacting against its solid wooden trunk and jarring, as he railed hits against her shrieking screams. On the twelfth hit she cried out his name to stop and a passerby was yanking him backwards. heavy marching steps approached as they stood staring at each other, two men in blue uniforms tugging him away a woman in blue with silver emblazons tried to talk to her, but she heard nothing, only silence. Looking down at the ground she finally moved forward two steps at the policewoman's urgings, and looking back at where she stood lay a single white rose trampled in the mud where her foot had been.