The Literature Aficionados

I added a final touch of my enticing Coco Chanel and strutted out in the flowing red gown for today’s soiree. Watson stood outside, waiting for me and as he regarded me, he flashed his lightbulb smile. A cyclamen pink blush fell on his face as he bowed and helped me into the carriage. After ten minutes of sound trotting, the horses halted, for we had reached. In the silvery moonlight, the Gatsby mansion gleamed like a new-born baby. The paint was fresh, the wavy carpet refurbished and as the waves crashed against the shore to the right, a salty yet calmly refreshing breeze wafted through the air, tickling my senses alive. This reprieve was short lived, for soon came roaring, all the other invitees in their cars and carriages. Along also came with them, a burden of mocking odours and a confusion of colours. I noticed the arrival of Mr Brown and his moustache. Oh, how I hated it! It seemed to have a mind of its own, twirling arrogantly of its own will. Mr Brown also brought along his ine...

There she is, my love, my life. Her auburn hair falls perfectly over her shoulders and her eyes twinkle making the stars look like they are not shining. The grey in her eyes shines, teasing me. These are the most precious jewels; these eyes never fail to make you feel loved, feel wanted. My hand, as if out of habit, moves to her cheek. They are as soft as cotton and smooth as silk, and my fingers glide over them as a feather in the air. My thumb travels to her lips, luscious and plush, they part seductively, and a sigh escapes her mouth. She closes her eyes, waiting for my lips to meet hers… And then as if by some invisible force she is pulled away from me and her eyes shoot open. They are no longer twinkling- they are pleading, begging for me to hold on to her. She extends her arm but she is too far away. She is fading, her lips are losing colour and her face becomes as pale as snow. My heart hammers in my chest, I shout but nothing escapes my mouth. She is fading, crumbling as if m...

“If you don’t mind my asking, professor, what do you do, like, after work?” a smooth voice inquired. The professor could see her eyebrows jumping and her shoulders shrugging in her voice while she bent forward, curious and inquisitive. He whirled round to face his petite student, “Ah, Susan! Well,” he started, “Not much. I go home, cook something for myself, maybe watch a bit of television. Why? Why do you ask?” “Uh, Well… So you have a quiet life, professor?” her almond eyes remarked. “You could say so,” he prodded along. “Okay! I guess it needs some spicing up, doesn’t it?” she winked and bounced away in her faded denims. A smile began travelling down his cheek like a snail trail and the professor chuckled to himself. He sat down on the leather of his chair and began strumming a tune. The fingers danced their way along the strings, while he hummed along. “Dancing in the dark,” he was Bruce Springsteen incarnate. “Da-da. Da-da,” he played along, “Woo-hoo!” He jumped ou...