"Quarry" - Scott Penrose - March 2015
I walk behind, breathing in the unusual concoction of soil, moistened by the overnight rain, overpowering eucalyptus emanating from every leaf, and crispness of the air, sharp and yet requiring a deeper breath. My prey is in front of me, a few steps ahead.
Watching, excited, every step an adventure into a new plane of existence.
I can feel my own breath changing, gulping in the crisp air, then as I watch another foot land, a catch, holding it in, not daring to let that moment go. So easily I could overtake my prey, bring my prey down with a swipe of my arm, but the moment would then be gone. Gone forever, never ever let it go, hang on, let the moment wash over me.
Slightly distracted by a twig breaking, I look over to see a rabbit shooting off up the hill. I think they know that the prey is coming. Looking around I notice the little point of an ear, the sudden silence as I am spotted, the flick of an angry tail onto the ground, and majestic stance of a big kangaroo. He relaxes a moment, I think he knows he is not my prey.
Turning back towards my own prey, pursuing my own perfect moment I realise I am lost. No longer can I see my prey ahead, I have gotten lost in the wrong moment. The plane of existence spreading before me now was the wrong one. A lower plane. I must find that upper plane again, the ecstasy of my pursuit, the excitement of the end, but it is gone.
A prick in my ear, a swish of air across the tall grass and a flick of my head spots my quarry once more. Instantly I soar, transported from my mediocre plane of non existence to my desired level. The shock of the transition makes my legs go to jelly. Stepping forward I stumble. Have I spoiled the moment, will I fall back to the boredom of my daily reality.
My eyes are wide, is the game up for my Game. No. A glance back, a pause, but then steps fall and the hunt continues. Picking up my game, I march on.
My legs are numb. From the fall, no, from the pursuit, the walk, the hunt. No. They are tingling. Super sensitive, beyond the feelings of normal walking right out until the feelings are so strong that my legs will burst out of my skin, but I hold them in, containing them, telling them to wait more. Pushing them back feels like numbness, but the tingling breaks through.
My eyes fall back to the tracks. The perfect prints being left behind. They are almost as good as the preys own feet. Leaning down I feel the shape left in the soft, damp soil. Not mud, not sand, but soft enough to leave an impression. The shape and depth of the impression of those beautiful feet are being left in mud on the ground, but pushing much deeper into my own soul. I feel like I am being walked all over, leaving an impression but no damage.
My pace quickens, I want more of those souls on my own soul. How can I get enough. How could any one have more than me. The chase was wearing on, feeling the thrill, that never ending desire to not stop the chase, and yet, why chase. The chase was there for the catch. To catch is what I want. Desire, lust, overwhelming need, but for what? For the chase to never end? For that moment as the prey is swept off their feet? For the end of the chase?
I feel the moment coming up faster, the end of the chase. Deep building inside. Starting down low, through the wet ground, the grass flicking around me, the smells building inside of my nose, and my mind. Catch, must catch. The need is now. Perhaps, just this, the end of the hunt will be as nice as the chase. No. I know it can't be. The chase is everything.
Walking along further I see my prey stop. I see her feet. Her feet are just lightly squished into the ground. Bits of mud squashing gently between her toes. It's mud, yes, and yet all I desire is my tongue to clean those feet. Her feet, soft, squishy, muddy yet divine. Bare feet walking through the lost landscape. The real world yes. My higher plane of ecstasy, definitely.
Up my eyes travel, past the flecks of mud stuck to her ankles from the chase. I see the curve, the bone, the bits sticking left and right. How do they hold someone up. Maybe it is my dream world that is holding us up. We seem so impossible anyway, yet my prey is impossible built on top of impossible.
Drinking up with delight I move my eyes yet further North. The curve of her calf a beautiful distraction from the ankles. Soft, white and curves. My favourite three combinations. Maybe the whole of something is more than the sum of the parts, but each part is more divine than my imagination could have ever dreamed. If the sum of those parts is even a fraction of the part itself the world will collapse with the weight of that realisation.
I realise everything has stopped, but I don't move. Has the wind stopped? I can see shadows passing between us. The clouds are moving. But the grass is not.
My eyes reach the back of her knees. She is still facing away from me. I long to look up faster, but the chase is still deep in my blood. The thrill and the moment, never let go of the moment. The back of her knee is surrounded by the sinews up from her calf, forming two walls around a little well.
Teasing, just knowing it is there, finally seeing, I look up to the edge of her dress. Tattered, or does it just look that way. Perhaps she has been running through this wild land for so long that it had no other way to look.
Skin coloured knots at the edge of her skirt hide the edge of her thighs, teasing, flirting, I have so much desire. My own head is light. The lightness of love, perhaps, or maybe I just lack the necessary juices for it to run in a proper manner. I am aware at that moment, looking at the knots at the bottom of her dress, that I am alert, erect.
Still further I seek, up those legs, now onto her dress. The cloth looks soft, warm, and warn. Floral maybe, a design designed for stealth. She could hide in those woods and I never would have found her.
The first, no, the next moment is approaching. I can feel it build again. I can feel the approach. I can see with my eyes the curve through her dress. The beautiful join from legs to body. My legs are gone again, can they make up there mind, first jelly then tingly then numb. Now jelly again. The material is calling me, just saying "touch." There is magic in her behind, somehow levitating the bottom of her dress, her skirt, from the top of her bottom and flowing down, defying the gravity of her body, which must surely be the strongest force around. How does she do it. How does she pull on me so hard and yet allow the material to flow from her curves down to the ground as if mere gravity had any importance at all.
I don't need to touch. It sounds like I am convincing myself it to be true, but the view, the chase, it isn't over. My eyes widen, as I endeavour to drink the view into my soul. Curves to the back, curves to the side, straight lines may confuse but curves are in me. Built in as something I want, desire, feel, oh feel, the need to feel. Am I feeling now? Is this the dream and the reality is feeling in the dark. Or am I watching my prey, while dreaming of the feeling.
One moment more. No ten. Her hips move, the stillness is over. Was it three seconds or three hours. Time is meaningless, a mere dimension. Who cares about four dimensions. Three is all I need.
Hips moving again my eyes pull back. The details is reduced but the whole is enhanced. Her dress sways side to side, flipping, swishing, moving the knots, twisting them. She moves her hip to one side. One hip is up and one is down, the angles she forms are not of heart or hip. Not the form of any geometric shape that can be described. They burn into my eyes, through them, to the core of my brain, no the core of my spine. How can a shape create a spasm.
For a moment I am distracted. I think of the poor creatures who find solace in chemical pleasure. There loss, nothing can compare. They feel a moment of love, of penetrating stare, that is gone and only want more. The more they have the more they need. But not need because of want, but need more just to achieve the same.
My moment is the opposite. The more I have, the more the penetration of my soul, the more I want yes, but the more I have. The smallest of glances, the moment of seeing, the slightest touch, of breath, of voice, of skin is enough to bring me back to my plane. Familiarity truly breads the desire, the love, the new plane of existence. Boredom, that is a concept for other people, for other planes. Contempt, what does it mean. I can feel in a single glance at her back the ecstasy of a life time for someone else. A truck full of chemicals could not compare.
The hunt wears on. Still I have not caught onto my prey. Does she feel weary of the chase. Not if her swaying of body has anything to say. It says more. But slow. A fast passed slow. Never ending.
My eyes follow up her back, up the material. It is open at the back, more knots dawn the edge the transition, the join between material and shape and, oh my, that skin.
Words fail. It is a cliché I know. I fall back so quickly on the lack of words. My lack of expression. How can an emotion that takes away thought be turned into words. I must go on. My desires can not be transferred to my other without words. I must use them to beam my existence into her. The ability to share a feeling inside with my prey. Is that a circular sensation. Is it even possible to beam my own consciousness into another while having theirs in mine.
Fail me not words.
My eyes travel ever inwards and upwards, the straps of her dress tying her together, holding her from flying apart. They flow, falling down, looping. Would my maths teacher ever believe I would remember, at this moment, the beautify of the catenary of her straps.
White. What a word. White. Is it even a colour. Is it lack of colour. White is not white. The word has no meaning like it has no colour. Her skin is not even white. How could such a plain word be used for something that represents the destination of desire. Perhaps an airport is a destination. Not at all, it is merely the air, the means by which to get to the final destination. A hub, the centre of many destinations can only touch on the edge of what it is. We can't find metaphor or simile to describe her best, most luscious, exotic and desirable organ. Perhaps some Latin. Epididymis.
As an adult we so often want to throw away the wrapper. Get to the inside, get to our final destination, forget about the journey, forget about the container, the layers. As a child we throw away the middle. Desire the wrapping.
But on my plane there is no wrapping to be removed. The dress, the skin, the blood, the bones, the brain, the juices, the electricity, the whole is the end. The desire is the whole.
Even the land has desire. And I have desire for that land. Mixed up whole with the sweet smells, the wisps of wind across my neck, and the whole of the view.
As my eyes move away from the skin, the shoulders, the blades ready to be kneaded, I realise I am not the only one looking. My eyes follow up, past the straps on her shoulders, the flash of more skin at her neck, her hair flowing over her shoulder and I see...
I see into her. All the way. It is like starting at the bottom and pulling out. Instantly I have fallen, into the depths of her deep blue pools. Pulling me down like there is no bottom. After I feel I can take no more, that I have to breath and back I fly, not by myself no, it is like being held. I feel as a baby once more, cuddled by arms as they lift me out of the pool and into the world.
This world. My world I created for her. My level of existence that no person could have obtained. Am I the only one? Do other people ever get here. It is hard to believe. But I hope.
Widening I no longer see skin. I no longer see ankles or bones or blood. The dress is gone, the skin is gone. The birds and wind have vanished. I no longer see blue, I no longer see white. I no longer see the patterns or the knots. I now see the whole, the vision completed.
My chase is over. My hunt is done. Have I lost. Am I sad it is over. Maybe a bit, and then I realise the truth I had not before. This was only the chase to the start. Only now has it really begun.
Feeling new, light, no longer in control of my legs, I lift first my left, and then my right, trying to walk. Trying to walk because I want to run.
Moving out in front of me I lift my hand, darting out with the tips of my fingers. Am I in front of a mirror? In front of me a vision lifts her hand, a ghost maybe? She lifts her hand and the tips, not quite touching, slowly map a pattern in the air. Finally, time not measurable, a spark passes between them and the high voltage connection is made.
Finger tip to finger tip, rolling my fingers back again they slide against hers. First a finger tip, then a whole finger and finally a palm. All the energy in side my legs, the skin holding the tingling in, lets go at that moment, throwing all the electrical energy through my heart, up to my shoulder, along my arm, through my hand and into my love. My delight. My one.
Is it in my imagination or did I see a wave of energy flow through her body. My fingers close over hers, tightening the grip, which can never be broken.
Where is sound? I can't hear. I strain. Nothing. Where is smell? I take a quick breath. Nothing. Has time stopped? I take my step. The one I so desperately desired, nay needed.
Stepping closer, my hand brushes over her hair, crispy, curly, divine, moving towards her shoulder, down again and firmly on her hips. She smiles and I die. Again and again lost, fighting to find my way back, but not too far back, only far enough back to die again.
Pulling in. I can feel the softness of her dress, hinted with harshness around the knots and I feel her soft breast pull against my heart. My hand now has its own mind, can no longer be thought of as mine, as it moves around her behind, finding the place it wanted since the hunt begun. Snug on her bottom, the shape designed to loose the minds of a 1000 men, the hand is happy and the hand releases the energy it has built up into the rest of my body.
Is it here?
Has the quarry been caught.
Will the moment end. I hope not. It can't.
I grab with my hand on her soft perfect posterior. I pull with her breast against my own. A moment longer in her eyes and I turn. I move in. I plant my lips on hers and I have arrived. Ecstasy throughout. My own Amanda has been caught and I will never let her go.