Deep With You-Part two: Green Eyes

Click For Part One – incase you haven’t read it!

The session continues…

Our two lovers, still within the throes of passion, continued burning through the lust that evaporated off them. The steam their beating bodies produced, condensed onto the wood and glossed paperback surfaces Anissa’s slender stomach was pressed on. Drayke was in control now; her face turned to the side in a futile attempt to watch him as he worked, her back gently arched – lumbar muscles contracting with beautiful tone. Her ass elevated up slightly off the desk, which, despite its fullness, was being completely suppressed by his powerful hands – no movement allowed if not by his design. So rare was it for her to submit to him, he took special pleasure from such primal positioning.

“Are you ready?” He questioned, as though not already making the warm opening between her squirming legs pulse with each stroke. The way he expanded her soft entrance with slow pelvic movements, made her crazy with heat – she moaned, wanting. Knowing what was to come, she responds with a look of cautious appetite.

“Yes…” Drayke filled his palms with the flesh of her posterior, gripping her hard enough to hurt; the deep relentless pounding of her wet intimacy began simultaneously. The sensations he could feel around and along the length of it, where driving him to addiction and he mercilessly drove every inch of himself into her repeatedly. His stamina almost endless, Anissa wasn’t sure how much more she could withstand. However, she loved the duality of internal ache and climax perpetuating pleasure. The tingling sensations were like wild static charges frivolously erupting from the brief spaces between them. “Don’t stop! Deeper! Harder!” She screamed in complete defiance of the authoritative force behind each of his thrusts. Drayke knew from how rash her breathing had become, and the way she was struggling to keep herself on her toes, that she was close to another orgasm. Although, his pride did take exception to the ability she had – unlike all others, to tolerate his full length, breadth, and sexual aggression, his need to please her thoroughly came before his own ego. And knowing every erogenous crevasse on her body, he slowed down his tempo, and switched tactics.

Releasing her blood warm left cheek from the archaic grip of one hand, while keeping one enslaved in the other, his change in pace had brought her back from the edge. Now she was staring over the cliff face, starving for the explosion of gratification that the climactic fall would bring. Nevertheless, Drayke held her back from it; her private parts were weeping and trembling – imploring him with every deliberate entry. Left hand, channeling desire into his mind by manipulating it’s voluptuous captive into revealing more…His other hand scheming to gratify her naughtiest pleasures, found it’s thumb roaming – she knew it’s destination. Thus presenting it to him obediently and unashamed, waiting impatiently, coveting the multiple sensations. He proceeded to satiate every need welling up inside her as vigorously and completely as she could handle, causing her fatigued spirit to helplessly scream in ecstasy. Finally, he let her fall – her body crashing into the aftermath of desires. Seeking his own completion, he unloaded his lust; their primeval tones synced and echoed erotically through the aisles of this large room of learning. Their breathing gently returned to normal as he kept himself inside until she went still.

Just outside…

“For God sake they’re at it again…” One of the men from the General Support Staff says to his female colleague – who can’t help but laugh childishly as they walk past the Star Chart Observatory entrance, on their way to the Chamber of Rest and Recreation. In another room two tiers up, a far more important conversation was taking place. Dr. Jasmine Samoy was having a holographic video communication with one of a party of three corporate grade individuals, who’d invested heavily into the voyage to Slaver’s Moon. Her office was sparse, clean, and clutter free, just like the plain unbranded attire she wore on her lightly tanned skin. Most paper materials had ceased production after the global blight of 2050 ravished Earth I plant life. Any wood based products found in the solar system now came from Earth II and only to those with very deep pockets. Surrounded by bespoke, pale yellow coloured walls, she sat, legs crossed, on her slender aluminium stool as the conversation unfolded.

“Doctor, have you been able to verify the origins of the sample we sent you?” the voice says impatiently through the static interference.

“Sorry, I couldn’t hear you before, we must be travelling close to a solar storm. Yes I have Sir, but the results are unexpected. I would like a few more days to retest the sample against the ‘Nouveux’ elements.”

“Impossible Doctor, my associates and I have to report your findings back to the president of Black Tech industries tomorrow morning in person.”

“I understand that Sir, but I am putting my career at risk just by possessing this sample. If the Captain knew I had it on board, let alone the real reason we were going to Omega Seven, he’d probably stick me in a cell.” Dr. Samoy’s tone was elevated and laced with genuine fear of the multitude of potential consequences that lay ahead.

“Didn’t you say that you’d be able to handle him?” Dr. Samoy paused… “Listen, it’s too late for cold feet, our time is fast approaching, and we all have to be ready for what Black Tech are going to do with Slaver’s Moon.” Dr. Samoy knew this to be true, and narrowed her focus away from the doubts and towards what was necessary.

“I understand Sir, it will be taken care of.”

“Good, I’ll let you get back to work, send me a holocom transmission of your final report on the organism within the hour.” Before he could click, the holocom closed, Dr. Samoy quickly speaks,

“Father, one more thing – do you have any objections with me removing Princess Anissa from the situation?” Her father, Vincent Samoy – galactic entrepreneur and former Earth II government official, responds cautiously…

If it doesn’t affect the mission, deal with her anyway you see fit.”

Captain Drayke D. Hamilton’s vessel, The Trafalgar 7 – built from the finest interplanetary alloys, glided through the darkness of space, navigating fringe science like it were the bedrock of it’s existence – neared it’s destination. Unbeknown to both, there was a deep sickness growing within its vast interiors. A mutinous affliction eating away at all facets of engineering aboard the ship, and at its centre, a once mild-mannered woman stood, the conductress in front of her ensemble of dissenting voices and disgruntled characters. From here – Chamber 207e, she garnered the infection.

“You’ve all seen the way she favours him! We all know what they get up to in the Captain’s private quarters!”

The gathered white coats and hard hats roar in agreement.

Not even the decency to keep their relationship professional in front of the crew, kissing on the bridge like they’re the main characters of some tacky sci-fi erotica! But I ask you? When was the last time any of you kissed your loved ones?! Didn’t the Princess say that this would be a simple six-month diplomatic voyage? But now, I’ve been told by the only person who deserves your respect and loyalty – that when we’re on Slaver’s Moon, the Captain will impose a complete blackout on holocom transmissions! And whose idea is that?? His royal concubine’s!”

Groans of derision saturate the air.

She is on this ship to look out for our best interest! The interests of her hand-picked, non-military crew. But no…she’s up there, servicing the Captain with the same mouth she needs to be sanctioning the dim-witted mercenaries when they abuse you, Tom, for having a stutter, or sexually assault you, Jane! In this room, we have some of the highest intellects on Earth II, yet we’re treated like 19th century mineworkers! WITHOUT US! THE SHIP GOES NOWHERE!“ She screamed, the woman’s face red with the design of anger as her once blonde hair thrashed wildly around, it’s new dark sullen tones of brunette and purple danced in the indistinct fluorescent lights as she gesticulated frantically.

The horde of once civilized workers fed off her vehement protestations, yelling back angrily in affirmation of her message. If the sound could escape these walls, then civil war they would have signalled.

With her concert of manipulation completed, the conductress left the engineering tiers to return to her room. At the same time, far away in their own private circle of reflection and deduction, Drayke and Anissa discuss the mission and the progress of their journey towards it.

“How much longer until we arrive?” She says, as her mind wanders back and forth from focus – still having flashbacks to their session in the Observatory.

“The Solar storm is a bit of a nuisance, but Trafalgar can handle it. We’ll increase our velocity once we’re passed this system of planets.”

“How long Dray?”

“Ten days” he answers avoiding eye contact. Anissa was the only woman able to bring out such boyish guilt from the Captain.

“You said it would only be a couple more days, and that’s what I told my crew.”

“Your crew? I thought I was the Captain”

“Maybe when I’m not wearing underwear”

“Funny – but I’ve told you to stop thinking of the crew as your personal responsibility, you treat them like they’re your own kids.”

“I can’t help it…anyway, I don’t want to have this argument with you again. Just give me some good news I can tell the ship.” As concerned as he was about this maternal sense of hers, it was also one of her more enchantingly softening traits. It made him want to say the three words to her he’d caged inside his chest.

“Tell them that they’ll get an extra 100MGs for each extra day that we’re overdue.”

“Can you afford to do that?”

“No, but our investors can”

“I don’t think they’ll be happy with the cost of this voyage increasing again before we’ve even arrived”

“They’ll be happy with what I tell them to be happy with.” He responds, a layer of disdain palpable in his words, as if recalling an unpleasant history with one or more of them.

“And you?” Drayke swiftly changes the subject.

“Have you thought about what you’re going to say once we arrive? The people of Omega are not known for their empathy…”

“I’ve been thinking about it more and more the closer we get, but it’s nothing I’m not used to – hostile negotiations are my specialty,” she says with an assurance born from the many power-obsessed dictators she’s verbally wrestled away from office and country. However, the situation they were moving towards was mutating rapidly into one unrecognisable from the mission brief they’d received upon departure.

“I know they are,” he replies with a flirtatious smile. “But, when dealing with the Omegians, I find preparing for the worst becomes prerequisite.”

“Yes I can tell from the charming group of mercenaries you’ve brought along.”

Drayke and Anissa continued their discussion for a further hour, sitting close and taking in enough pheromones to propagate attention-stealing affections. Despite this, their un-clarified relationship status took a back seat to the importance and responsibility of the task.

Far beneath them, the wheels of fate turned continuously, and one of its cogs was circling at the same pace our conductress was walking, heading patiently towards her residence. Once there she noticed the sliding door was already unlocked. Unfazed, she slid it across and walked in. Inside, the room was set to a brighter lighting arrangement than she’d left it. Knowing what this meant she speaks out into the room.

“Already making yourself at home I see” In response, a women steps out from the bathroom, jet black hair, long and heavy with moisture. Her face was smiling in expectancy, the rest of her body taut from the fresh chill of conditioned air flowing around them. She steps forward, exposed parts moving accordingly, and says.

“Blaise, how did it go?” the conductress always loved it when she said her name; there was a tone to it that suggested a hidden sentiment behind the formalness. The naked woman before her, though unassuming in her appeal, had found a way to lure out parts of her she never knew existed. Unlike the immature male suitors, she had during her formative years in a New England suburb. Blaise, missing the strength of character she’d just displayed to over fifty people, responds sheepishly.

“It went well babe” the words, blushing out of her. She was shorter than her lover, and was never more aware of this than when giving a report back to her. She was wearing the white and black engineering department uniform of overcoat, one piece and sturdy shoe, she played with the buttons on it subconsciously as she continued. “They’re definitely with us, the bit about the Captain not allowing holocom transmissions was a just perfect, and they behaved exactly like you said they would.”

“Of course they did, have I ever lead you wrong, Blaise?”

“Never babe, but…when are we going to go to the next stage of the plan? If we leave it too long, some of them might find out that not everything I’ve been saying is the truth…”

“Don’t worry about that for now, I’ll let you know when the time is right “

“Okay then, but I should probably go back to work though, it’s still a couple of hours before lunch and need to lead from the front.”

“Oh definitely, I don’t like slackers. However, before you go, can you help me get dressed?” the chill in the air suddenly changes to something warmer, something seductive. Blaise, pleased to no longer have to wait to touch her replies,

“Is it the purple underwear the Doctor is wearing today?”

To be continued

 Alpha Maurice Cidade Cauwenbergh

© Alpha Maurice Cidade Cauwenbergh – Storyteller, Poet & Intern at Wordsmith Inc 2015. Unauthorised use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Alpha Maurice Cidade Cauwenbergh – Storyteller, Poet & Intern at Wordsmith Inc with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.


Something different – an autobiographical piece.

The day my father left. Vol. 2


When I decided to write this, I couldn’t decide whether to do it in the form of a poem or a ‘simple’ autobiographical prose. I’m still undecided as I begin to type these words into my laptop.

The inspiration to write this came while watching of A Monster Calls. The film was very rich in emotive subject matter – making you wonder what you would do in the boys situation – having to deal with something so gut-wrenching at twelve years of age. Which then got me thinking of what the most painful parts my life have been so far… instinctively I turned to football, and the plethora of physical and mental distresses I’ve suffered over the last ten years, at the hands of sporting injuries and comfort eating tendencies. However, that just reminded me of something unnerving that I’ve been feeling for a while…’Am I over that pain?’ In previous years when I’ve flirted with retirement, the swell of sadness and tears that rose from my belly, to bottleneck at the back of my throat whenever asked to think, or talk about those spirit choking incidences would be ever-present, but now was gone. Where were the tears? I can still see the wounds, but they’re no longer sore to the touch. Does not crying for long enough eventual create a desert of your soul? Answering this in the afore-mentioned context would take a whole separate piece dedicated solely to that aspect of my life. This story is not about that, but about the way that realisation caressed my heart towards an older chapter in my life i.e. Finding this previously deep well of emotion empty, I went looking for more pain in order to empathise with the plight of the boy in the movie.

Very strangely, I thought about the day my father told my brothers and me that he was leaving my mother. Strange because in hindsight, I can’t really recall when I’ve thought about that day and given it the credence it deserved as an emotionally traumatic event. Is that just down to my forever-optimistic personality? Although, now that optimism is far more tempered then in my youth, I like comparing it to child Naruto vs Adult Naruto. An anime character, who’s been through his fair share of life altering pain (for those who don’t know). Alternatively, and perhaps more tellingly; was this the first time I employed the repressive tactic that I have since used to bury all significant pain from the conscious surface? Because the more I thought about it the more I was awakened to the memory of how much it hurt. However as the title suggests this was not the first time my father was about to leave us, and peculiarly I can’t remember if I cried or not, but I do remember weeping like the child I was when he stormed out several years earlier. Although he returning something like an hour later, it didn’t prevent me from having to watch the relatively new older half-brother and sister, I loved like full siblings I’d known since birth prepare themselves to leave with him. Hear my mum – the strongest women walking Gods green earth, cry on the phone to her eldest sister as she pleaded for help and advise on how to reason with him. I remember my younger brother ask me why I’m crying? Then, my older half brother reprimanding him for such a foolish question. You may not believe this, but it was only when arriving at the second paragraph of this piece that I even remembered the emotional connection between the two events and thus changed the title – adding Vol.2, I guess that’s just how well those emotions were suppressed. Turning events that perhaps should have been potent psychological markers of emotional development, into hollow memories of something that flickers in and out of knowing, like the song you’re tired of hearing and always skip when it comes on.

Arriving at the third paragraph, I now know the purpose of this whole trip down memory lane. I believe that just simply acknowledging the pain I felt at the second and permanent time of my dad’s leaving, and giving that moment the importance it warrants, will make me a healthier person. Therefore, I want to recall everything that happened a late afternoon in nineteen ninety-eight.

I can’t accurately remember if the sun was definitely still out, or exactly who else was in the house. Nevertheless, I remember my dad sitting the brother who directly follows me and myself down at the dinner table – my other sibling, and the youngest of my mum’s children may or may not have been there too, I can remember. Perhaps because I wasn’t brave enough to turn to my left at any point throughout my dad’s speech and look at the expressions on their faces. I do on the other hand have an ingrained image of my mum sitting on the sofa at the other side of the room; the whole time he spoke, she wore that unique pouted face of hers – complete defiance at the sorrow being brought into her life again – anger and sadness in equal measure.

My dad explained that he and my half siblings would be going to live with his girl friend ( for lack of a better word), the words passed through me easily, like on some level I had been expecting them. However, they still hurt, in a way that I don’t think I could fully process at the time, largely due to the lack of understanding of the knock on effect of such a decision on me personally and the family dynamic in the future. He made sure to keep repeating that although he was leaving, that in no way meant that he didn’t love us, something I believed without question. I remember feeling comfort at hearing the anger in his voice when exclaiming that if any of my mother’s family said that he didn’t love us, we were to tell him immediately. I guess that familiar anger and assertiveness made me feel that my dad was still the man I’d known my whole life.

I also have the image of my older half-sister crying when it came time to say good-bye to us, I think my older half-brother was too, but can’t say for definite. To be honest I’m not sure if I was crying or not at this point, but I would be very surprised if I weren’t. I wasn’t as good as I am now at releasing everything but the rain. I really can’t picture my two younger brother’s faces…it’s frustrating, perhaps I feared that looking at them and adding their pain to my own would be too much for my young spirit to handle…I wish I could have been more mature during the immediate aftermath and given them some kind of comfort through encouraging words or physical affection. But alas, my inability to show physical affection to family members is a story for another day. I do find some solace in the knowledge that over the coming years, I took on board some of the parental duties of a father with my youngest brother, who’s face on that day I achingly STILL can’t remember. What difference would it make anyway, I’m not a time traveller…I can’t go back and put my arms around him…so l shouldn’t dwell. The chronology of some events of that day are a bit messed up, therefore I’m not sure when exactly, or even if on the same day, but I remember my uncle in our house. He was passionately beating his chest as he yelled that he would be there for us for whatever we needed, and so, we shouldn’t worry or be down hearted. It was an inspiring moment to me…but in hindsight, I’m not sure how much of that help actually materialised.

Funnily enough, it wasn’t until years later once utilising the lens of young adulthood, did I start to put together all the little insidious events that lead to that day. The awareness of which, to my recollection, didn’t pain me, most likely due to my own personal experiences of the complexity of adult relationships. Moreover, how love is neither everlasting nor a guarantee of relationship cohesion. But most importantly, that my parents are only human and can make mistakes. Still, it’s a shame when some of your fondest and purest childhood memories become tainted with a mature truth.

Conceivably, I may be being too harsh on myself, and it’s actually the thick inescapable casserole of my; cultural environment, parental upbringing and genetic pre-disposition that created the perpetually pain repressing person I am today. Not poor emotional choices at key moments in my life. However, I guess that’s just another chicken and egg conundrum. Saying all that, whatever part my eternal reservoir of optimism has had to play in this psychological coping strategy, I wouldn’t change it for the world. Furthermore, perhaps there were more pros to suppressing the pain of that day and any other traumatic events in my life. It allowed me to not be derailed from my daily, weekly, or monthly path and thus continue pursuing my dreams with less social and academic strife.

Sorry for the dramatic change in topic and tone of my writing this week. It just felt right in that brief moment of clarity to write this piece, raw and un-drafted. At its onset, there was nothing particular I expected to gain personally, or for you guys to individually. I just hoped that listening to me express these years old uncovered feelings would not be too dreary for you. As a bonus, it was truly a cathartic experience for me, thank you for reading.

By Alpha Maurice Cidade Cauwenbergh

© Alpha Maurice Cidade Cauwenbergh – Storyteller, Poet & Intern at Wordsmith Inc 2015. Unauthorised use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Alpha Maurice Cidade Cauwenbergh – Storyteller, Poet & Intern at Wordsmith Inc with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

An introduction into the world of my new hero and future novel

I am in the very early stages of creating the world of possibly my next novel and its main protagonist. So I just wanted to give you guys an exciting introduction into both! Please let me know what you think of the character and the potential story that could spawn from this introductory chapter.

The Chronicles of Aron Sherapova: The Ties That Bind

Character designs drawn by Vinh Nguyen


The Leviathan Order Of Five – watching, smirking, and absorbing from their perched views, waited for her journey’s end to come.


Aron Sherapova was screaming in a blind rage at the evil incarnate that stood before her; steel blade in one hand, and her 5-year-old son in the other, dangling from his neck – which through a mother’s eyes, looked frightfully brittle in the murderous man’s callus grip. She let him know that threatening her child’s life would be his final act on this earth. His soft little face stared back bleakly at her, with no understanding of what was about to happen to him – he just cried helpless tears of an infant lost, hoping to be saved into his mother’s arms, rescued from the danger like she did on those nights that he awoke from dreams terrified. She fought back the uncontrollable weeping from pouring out of her, by feeding the rage that was slowly making her nuclear with blood lust. With sweat dripping from her face and the look of death itself in her eyes, she promised to claim his life with her own bare hands.

There was another person involved in this sadistic game, a seated, quiet, and aged man, tentatively placed to the left of the maniacally laughing monster in front of her. She didn’t recognize him, a withered man, bearded with cracks of tiredness littering his stone expression. He was facing her, but his attention seemed to pass through her, and to the lifeless walls that surrounded them. Aron had already assessed the damp poorly lit room for exits, weapons and tactical advantage, however, it was becoming more and more saturated in the smell of blood, and she could not discern from where. The smell reached up her nose and into the back of her mouth, the subtle taste of metallic rust trickled down her throat with every nervous swallow of spit. Her attempts at deducing its origin were being obstructed by the swearing, and spat questions he hurled at her. All animated with the insanity life times of perpetual ruin brings, but to earth’s legend, and once ‘Guardian of Time’, Aron Sherapova the only question that mattered was whose violence would determine the outcome of the unfolding events?

ISAAC, I’m going to give you one last chance to put Manu down…”

“Put him down?! Why? He’s mine as much as he is yours, maybe more so…plus he likes playing hostage with his father – don’t you son?”

“You’re not his father! I fucking swear to God that I’m going to kill everyone you ever loved Isaac.”

“Me first.”

Aron screamed horrifically for her boy’s life, as though hoping that the desperation in her voice could somehow shatter the blade descending onto her weeping son’s chest…



The woman who would be heroin and protector of all things in times to come, was for now, just beginning another day in her somewhat ordinary life.

“I’m going to be late for my client!” It was 7am and Aron was rushing out of her flat in Hackney, which she shared with two other housemates. The spring weather was just beginning to permeate through the atmosphere and the refreshing feeling of a new dawn was cloaking her troubles nicely. Until, she checked her phone – sliding her figures impatiently across the screen she discovered three messages. The first;


Aron just kissed her teeth thinking about how many times she’s told him that Derek is bad news, and that he’ll eventually break his fragile hipster heart. The second a text message from NatWest – ‘You have gone over your agreed limit, please address the balance on your account by 3pm to avoid any un-arranged overdraft fees.’

This was already the second time this month that she’d gone over her account’s limit, and with her gym rent due in a week, it was definitely not going to be the last. The third;


This made her stop dead in the middle of the pavement, only meters from her bus stop. ‘This woman was haggling for a reduced rate like I’m selling fish at a market, talking about how she’s desperate to look great for her wedding, but now she’s already missed the first two sessions of the block!’ She thought to herself, oblivious that the hair now in her face and mouth had been blown there by her bus speeding past. Thankfully, for her, she no longer had the same time constraints around her morning. She didn’t bother replying, spat the hair out of her mouth in contempt and clicked the phone shut, still cursing Becky, and the fact that she had to wake up earlier than necessary under her breath as she strolled towards the bus stop.

When Aron arrived at First Fitness – a company she always felt had delusions of grandeur, she was greeted by one of her least favoured colleagues. This individual’s name was Terrence, and everything from the low hang of his tracksuit bottoms, forever-creased Personal Training t-shirt, and tendency to comment on her body rubbed her the wrong way. Occasionally, she would even daydream about kicking him over a rowing machine. However, in real life she’d never once struck someone for pleasure – play fighting with men twice her size excluded of course. Aron Sherapova as far as she could remember had always spent her spare time playing sports with older boys; she found most of the girls and boys of her age far too fragile. The six-inch ever-present, yet slightly faded scar on her forearm was a reminder of those brutally effervescent days.

After her forced ‘hi, how are you’ to Terrence, and an impotent ‘fine’ response from him, she made her way downstairs towards the staff room. Aron only briefly shifted her focus from her destination, to smile at the gym members she thought were polite and serious about their training. Lazy people always reminded her of the introverted room-mate at the orphanage; who’s company, poor hygiene and incessant complaining she’d endured for years – and thus were shunned from her sphere of acknowledgment, unless she was being paid to do so. In that circumstance, she could feign interest like a world-class lady of leisure.

She opens the staff room door.

“Mon!” Aron shouts gleefully.

“Hey my pretty,” Monique says, with a smile honest and large enough to bring light to the darkest room. Aron sits beside her closest friend, and hugs her firmly as though trying to imprint her affections directly onto Monique’s body. Monique feels the strength of her embrace and asks, “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, just the same old stuff; rent, clients cancelling sessions and a narcissistic house mate who can’t keep his legs closed, or is it butt cheeks?”

“Arrgh, Don’t be nasty” Monique says with a begrudging laugh rattling around in her throat. “Oh yeah, was going to text you last night but, fell asleep swooning over Michael B Jordan, how did therapy go?

“It was okay,” she replies with a pause of uncertainty.

“Do you think he’ll be able to help you remember?”

“No one else has so far, but apparently he has some special way of recovering subjugated repressed memories as he calls it. Sounds like expensive rubbish to me, but I’ve got another appointment at the Leviathan Community Clinic today at 2pm, so lets see.”

“You’re so incredible Ronny. To go through what you have and not be in jail or worse is amazing. Honestly, I hope that if you ever remember your life before that time, it was just a normal beautiful one. You really deserve it.”

“Aww thanks hun; it means a lot to me you saying that.”

“I really mean it, and I know that there are wonderful things in store for you in the future. Maybe even that new PT Sam…”


“You’ll see, I think you two will get along”

Hours pass, in typical fashion – the gym is a rich sea of semi lost individuals hoping to find a system of cardio based effort that will make them thinner than they are. Some exercise professional, navigating those waters as sharks attracted to the scent of misguided sweat and effort, hoping to feed on the insecurities. While others, as coast guards hoping to rescue the unfortunate ones, those seemingly and haplessly drowning in the almost infinite ways to exercise one’s body. Aron, being one of the latter is looking to pick up some new clients during her small reprieves between sessions and teaching classes. However, this was a day where normality of routine was not going to last.

Before it was time for her usual midday power lifting session, her attention was drawn to the ‘front of house’ reception area. In her hawk like periphery vision, she saw the familiar gesticulations of two people arguing. The sounds of their raised voices immediately followed, Aron’s senses were far more attuned to violence than most women, or men of her demographic and her adrenaline began flowing. She saw that the person working at reception was the frail mannered Jessica. Smartly dressed and disarmingly beautiful she may have been, but that was the only situational disarmament her presence was capable of. A true ornament of the corporate hiring practices – brittle and useless. Aron moved towards them instinctively, they were two men dressed like estate agents arguing about, what seemed to Aron’s discerning mind, one person ‘stealing’ the other’s parking spot. Another thing that became clearer as she calmly approached like an animal confident in her camouflage, a concealment born of the localised focus of fight or flight instincts between two posturing males. Is that the taller man with dense fiery orange hair, freckles, and the unique fair-skinned beauty of a mixed raced instagram sensation, was not the aggressor. In fact, the other slightly shorter, less broad-shouldered male was barely holding on to his faculties, as he vomited out the kind of foul language you’d expect in the locker room of the most intellectually diminished Sunday league football team. The amber-haired man was trying to defuse the situation to no avail. Then suddenly recognising that moment before a wild barking dog mauls flesh from bone, Aron explodes forward – discarding the ground beneath her plantar flexed Nike trainers nonchalantly. The force generated by her powerfully sculpted thighs places her almost instantly between the crazed man’s fist and his target – the other gentleman’s perfectly sculpted jaw. Everyone, inside or outside the gym had now stopped what they were doing to observe the commotion, witnessing in silent shock as Aron took the full force of the punch to the side of her face.

After a few awkward seconds, the irrational individual that had just assaulted a First Fitness member of staff appeared immediately sobered up. Like the realisation, that he’d struck a woman had poured ice-cold water over his rage. However, he could have been forgiven for thinking otherwise, as Aron had barely even taken a backward step upon impact, she absorbed his blow like a young Mike Tyson. It would have been very unnerving to anyone not too shocked by the incident to notice, but that was no one, and it went unseen.

“Hey miss are you alright?” the man who’d just been protected by Aron spoke, tapping her on the back of her right shoulder. She didn’t respond straight away. ”I can’t believe you hit a woman! That’s disgusting.” He continued, with a corral of voices in the background agreeing with him. The now neutered animal, stuttered nervously in his response.

“I didn’t mean too, where the hell did she even come from? I swear I wouldn’t fucking hit a chic!” Aron, brushing a portion of her thick long hair from her face, turns to look at the man directly and states clearly,

“You need to leave now.” With almost the whole gym watching, he doesn’t utter a word, instead carries his shame with him as he leaves the premises, tail between his legs.

With the main instigator gone, the crowd disperses like insects at the sight of a raised heel. Jessica was still standing behind the counter in all her inept glory, she watched as Aron turned towards the worried figure in shirt and blazer. When they locked eyes, a world of dark brown and green tinted hazel collided, causing a chain reaction of micro expression in both their flushed faces. Then Aron, felt the spark of something life-altering in grandeur within her flicker as he placed his hand on her shoulder, asking again ‘if she was unhurt’. She smiled softly, it was a slightly awkward movement of lips, as unguarded dainty smiles were unfamiliar currency to her. Aron’s response though, was more typical of her boyish character, “Course I am, he punches like a girl.”

“That’s funny,” he says laughing honestly. Remembering her employee duties she says,

“Anyway, sorry about that sir, do you want to make an official complaint about that member’s behaviour?”

“Nah don’t worry about all that, I have to get back to work anyway, but I would like to get your name please?” He says trying not to sound like an opportunist.

“Of course, take my business card” She picks one out from the PT board by the wall near Jessica, and doing her best not to let on how attracted she was to this polite well spoken man, she places it coolly in his hands. He begins leaving, and just as he is about to disappear into the realm of will he, won’t he call me, she breaks decorum and shouts, “What’s you’re name then?!” Spinning around briskly, he responds with equal energy,


To be continued

 By Alpha Maurice Cidade Cauwenbergh

© Alpha Maurice Cidade Cauwenbergh – Storyteller, Poet & Intern at Wordsmith Inc 2015. Unauthorised use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Alpha Maurice Cidade Cauwenbergh – Storyteller, Poet & Intern at Wordsmith Inc with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

My first Sci-fi Erotica…Adults Only

 Deep with you


‘The pounding is incessant…he won’t give me a second to breath. My back, it aches…I need a reprieve.’

Anissa Ife, was referring to her captain’s constant thumping on her bedroom door. He wouldn’t except that their day’s interaction was over, and so was continuing an aggressive one-way conversation with the automated door to her private quarters. She was exhausted from their earlier argument about the performance of the ship’s crew – who, she had personally vetted and recruited for their six month-long voyage to the slaver’s moon of planet Omega Seven. He was like most three star captains – stubborn, but so was she. Anissa Ife, the last pure-blooded black princess of Earth II, had tamed many powerful men, some sought to exert authority over her domain because of her fledgling years, others attempted to manipulate their way into her body’s darkest and most mineral rich places. Although a diminutive figure of regal grace, when she deemed it necessary, her gravitas was palpable, like feeling her will inside your flesh, the majority found it very unnerving and would shy away from her in these special moments. However, Captain Drayke D. Hamilton found them exhilarating, all his senses would almost sizzle themselves numb at the sight of her true uncompromising self. For him, like when his Father would purchase a wild New Mexico stallion on the cheap, (because it had already badly injured six men) then challenge him to break it in – the difficulty of the task, and strong likelihood of physical pain before pleasure, was exactly what he thrived on. After all, this was one of the few non-academic hardships available for the Deep Space Program’s youngest ever recruit.

Anissa, for now was tired of their highly charged relationship, and sought to sooth her mental and physical complaints with a hot bath. Cocooning her consciousness in classic Earth I Jazz music, and the gentle tranquilizing glow of slow dancing candle light. All of which were scented, and carefully placed around the ceramic womb her soft naked body was to be submerged in, as if it were an offering to the four tribe Gods of her native Zantili. Thus, his relentless requests to be allowed inside were ignored until they became a silent acceptance. Her sleeping quarters were relatively modest for someone of her station – this was of her design. While on this half-year mission she desired to keep the connection between herself and the vessel’s crew as intimate as feasibly possible. Her father, a great psychologist in his day, had taught her the many ways in which to elicit feelings of trust and loyalty from people – she employed them diligently. This connection was just one of the many things she pondered while soaking herself in the sauna warm cocktail of luxury bath salts, and the soapy run off of golden gel she lathered across her blemish-less body. After she’d finished caressing the full length of her leg, she sighed, tilted her head back to rest on the reflective white tub’s ergonomic headrest. Slowly, this obsidian princess drowned her entire glistening leg into the water, like one would a tender loin passionately seasoned by caring hands, making sure every inch was elevated in both flavour and feel – before immersing it in a liquid slumber, to only rising again for the nourishment of the one you love.

As Anissa’s worries dissolved off her and into the water, so did any tension she felt towards Captain Drayke –as it was customary to address officers of this Earth. Now instead, her meditating mind rolled away layers and layers of memories to reveal the first time she’d experienced him. They’d crossed paths the day before, at a dinner gala for the retiring president of Earth II’s foremost quantum energy industrial empire. However, to hear of the captain’s effortlessly rugged demeanor or intellectual domination of lesser mortals, and experience them, are two very different things. Therefore, although this was their second meeting of eyes, it was on this day, that her body was truly introduced to Drayke D. Hamilton.

She recalls an ordinary morning at her family’s estate; she’d gone out into one of the northern fields in the hope of observing the behaviour of the undisturbed wildlife. All manner of fascinating creatures congregated there by her planets famed crimson petal oak tree. To her surprise, she wasn’t the first there. It was still very early and the sun was lazily hanging above the horizon, painting the landscape in morning amber. However, there stood three male figures, seemingly doing some kind of obnoxious dance that supplemented loud groans of vulgarity. It was only after twenty or more inquisitive steps forward did she recognise one of them as Drayke.

In that moment, Anissa’s understanding of the scene in front of her became vivid, as though suddenly conscious that she had painted it into existence herself. If that were the case, she, with all her affinity for the arts, couldn’t have done a better job – before her was a masterpiece, a seducing display of brawn the likes of which her senses were not prepared for. Drayke was stood naked from the waist up, the other two men also, however neither could boast a physique so well-developed – Drayke had the stature and presence of a warrior. As she became transfixed on all that he was, she was simultaneously being disarmed of her own power, his beautifully caramel complexion looked gentle and soft as the perspiration on it glimmered in the early sun. However, before she was stripped bare, the base in his voice reverberated through her thin dress and chest, it startled her into focus. His eyes however were firmly fixed on his two opponents as he punished them repeatedly for their inexperience, bringing them to their knees like lost boys before the original man. Although only seeing his whole face in glimpses, his eyes sucked at her soul, she couldn’t help but become weak at the way their darkness, combined with the curl in his eyelashes escaped the bearded ruggedness of his other features. Creating a portrait of safety and danger that spoke to her baser instincts, this induced the first quiver of feminine appetite from between her.

She ambled around in this memory for a while, but before long its accompanying sensations slowly drew her back to the present, her marauding mind was being ushered here by drowning butterflies of lust. This, at times could become an insatiable animal…consuming all who awoke it in their entirety. Although its vast hunger was evident by the salivation within, if she fed it now, it could be appeased with just a little feel of flesh – her hands travelled to where they were needed. The left, applying undulating pressure to her breast, the right one in-between her thighs with slender fingers slowly stroking. Despite the water around it, she could still differentiate the feel of soft moisture within it. Anissa’s hunger purred with each caress, the butterflies of excitement rose into her abdomen – she was now committed to the act. She thought about the last time Drayke was inside her, and the movements of her fingers became more purposeful in response. She remembered the deeply satisfying intake of his firm manhood as she played to her writhing desires. Her thoughts, now flickered to the strength of his grip on her waist and neck – his power, enough to hold her still as he sought different rhythms at which to slide pleasure into the wet wanting spaces. The force of which, would be dictated by her compliance to the whispered commands in her ear. The feeling of pleasure emanating from her centre was so delicious it began to make her feel weak, she didn’t resist its call for climax, and instead let her body melt into the feeling. Now, so feverish was her appetite that, she shed all teasing distractions and focused only on how it felt to massage her pulsating lips – with extra vibrating attention applied to the soft protruding tip – she was on the precipice. Anissa was relentless, the speed of her efforts rippled and splashed outwards in the still warm bath water, her perfectly contoured legs started to stiffen as her breathing deepened further and further. Each rapid left right shift of wetted friction brought the arcane contractile explosion from her pelvic floor closer and closer. Seconds rushed by, and before she could bare her soapy chest in a final breath before bliss, it hit her – every muscle in her lower abdomen clenched as the ecstasy jolted out from the spaces between her squirming shivering thighs. Then, after a few more numbingly pleasurable seconds, her orgasm completed its sensual healing with slow radiating waves that relaxed her entire body completely into the water.

The next day.

 Breakfast was served by the on board kitchen crew at eight am Earth time, they consisted of the finest culinary androids and waiters available anywhere in the known galaxies. The Captain was always the first one to arrive at the communal dining hall – he liked to observe how and in what order the crew assembled to eat their most important meal of the day. Ten minutes in and most of the upper and mid level crew were seated and enjoying various delights from their home world and beyond. The lower level crew, whose main job it was to attend to the mechanical and engineering sections of the vessel, always strolled in later than the rest. There were rumours of grievances emanating from within that section of the ship, however Captain Drayke didn’t want to address them at this particular moment, plus crew relations were Anissa’s department. Just as his attention was returning to the half-eaten meal of random protein and vegetables in front of him, a tall slender shadow eclipsed his surroundings. It was the shadow of Dr. Jasmine Samoy, a brilliant biomolecular engineer…she had the look of the girl next door, but the cunning of a wild street fox. Dr. Samoy had a complicated history with Drayke that dated back to their time at the Space Program’s Academy, the whispers on the ship were that he had taken her virginity back then, and although remained friends, she harboured ill feeling towards him and his relationship with Anissa. Another, more popular theory was that they had taken part in a ménage à trois that went terribly wrong.

After a quick interaction of trivial small talk built on a scaffolding of hidden agendas and repressed feelings, the Captain began to notice the missing piece. Perhaps it was the speculative presence of Dr. Samoy that sparked it, but he was now aware of Anissa’s absence. They usually had breakfast together, comfortably sharing space and focus the way in-love couples did. He never feared what the crew would make of their very public relationship, and he was the kind of leader whose authority and actions were never questioned – publicly anyway. He recalled the sour way in which they’d left things last night, and hoped that she weren’t still upset about what he’d done. This made his heart ache slightly, he wanted to see her and peacefully reconcile their affections. In that moment, Dr. Samoy knew that Drayke was no longer paying attention to her; she frowned at the idea that he was thinking about her, however, for now she knew her place and divulged Anissa’s location to him. Without too much acknowledgement of her civility, he stood up, and as he did, so did the entire hall of more than a hundred people, all of notable specialist skill and military stature. However, in front of this man, all knew themselves to be less, and thus showed him almost regal respect as he entered or left a room. Then to the sound of a hundred men and women seating themselves, he disappeared to find her. The Doctor watched his broad shoulders prop up the medal studded blazer she once helped him try on as he strolled away hatefully, like when she had to watch her father go off to see a ‘work friend’ as her mother lay upstairs sobbing pathetically. Months before, she had already vowed to never become like her…the mechanisms of her plan were already in full motion.

“Why would she be in the Star Chart Observation Room” was the only thought that circled in his head as he made his way to her. Knowing the ship as he did, made getting there from the dining hall seven levels down relatively quick, and as he stood before the metallic entrance – he thought over what he would say to alleviate any concerns she may have about his dedication to their future plans. Once ready, he accessed the room with his key card and walked straight to where she was stood. Anissa Ife was standing facing the star chart on the ‘starboard’ side black wall of this colossal room. It resembled a dark canvas with countless diamonds poured onto it, with some mystically spiralling together to form galaxies and others becoming cloudy like the dying stars they represented. The centre space within the room was akin to the layout of the ancient libraries of the 21st century. She must have felt his presence as she turned to face him, because the doors of this ship slide inaudibly. Drayke, walking with the humble valour of a returning solider, stopped only a few steps away from her as their eyes met – she was the only woman who could give him pause. Before he could preach his rehearsed concession, she stepped towards him, and placing her hands on his firm chest said, “Fuck me.”

In only a few seconds Drayke had already tore her blouse half off, and was attending to her exposed chest and neck passionately. As one of his large hands grabbed her full and curvaceous ass intently – the intention being to forcibly lift her onto her toes, the smell of the moisturiser she’d used radiating off her blood warm breasts, drove his desire to eat her uncontrollably to the surface. He gnawed at her perked nipples and felt her grip him tightly in response. As his left hand, reached around her slight waist, beyond her laced underwear and seductively manipulated the entrance to her female passion; he whispered with hot bated breath, “I can’t wait to feel my hard dick slowly open up your tight wet pussy.” She reached under his arms, dug her nails into his upper back musculature, and pulled him in closer, like she was about to open up and consume him whole. The strength of the primal creature within her was growing; she grabbed a fist full of the hair at the back of his head, jerking it back so she could look into his dark covetous eyes and said, “Before that, I want to taste myself on your lips.” Without hesitation he picked her up, legs wrapped around his waist and found her a large finely crafted table to rest upon.

Kneeling down before her, he removed any man-made fabric that obstructed his view of the deliciousness between her thighs. Sharply pulling her forward to the edge, he then grabbed her ankles and put both legs over his shoulders. He loved feeling the weight of them on him; their sensual denseness concealed a heat that, when escaped from between her opened legs, made him wild with thirst. Supporting the small of her back as she lent backwards in throbbing anticipation, he delved into the warm moisture that lay amid the soft inner and outer lips of her intimacy. He wasn’t playing games with her today; he knew the exact flowing patterns to draw on her and make her climax rush forward like a lit match to a fuse. As he nibbled, licked, and sucked on everything he could get his profuse lips on, she writhed around on the table trying not to alert the rest of the ship with her echoing moans of pleasure. She massaged the back of his head as he worked her into a frenzy; she could feel the lukewarm trickle of his efforts slowly trace their way down the space between her two weak spots. The feel of his and her essences wetting the skin on and around her currently unsought to privacy, multiplied her desires exponentially. She grasped his wrist and led him to it. Almost immediately after feeling, the combined, oral, and tactile caresses – her primary opening screamed together with the other in ecstasy as her climax jolted through her entire body – back, front, head to toe, contorting her in wild screeches of passion. Drayke held her tightly by her waist and mid back, supporting her through the convulsions. Just as they settled, he stood up, face and mouth glistening in his achievement and kissed her, in Anissa’s still aroused state – she loved the flavours. Drayke was bulging unashamedly; she could see its promise, and stroked the full length of it before groping as much as she could through his attire. Anissa teased his girth briefly, she could sense his desire to fill her with it until she ached. Biting her lip in expectation, she pulled back just in time to see his mouth move, and a deep tone accompany the words, “Bend over.”

To be continued…

By Alpha Maurice Cidade Cauwenbergh


With You-Part two: Green Eyes

© Alpha Maurice Cidade Cauwenbergh – Storyteller, Poet & Intern at Wordsmith Inc 2015. Unauthorised use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Alpha Maurice Cidade Cauwenbergh – Storyteller, Poet & Intern at Wordsmith Inc with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

God Sucks At Mario Kart




So apparently, today I’ll be playing video games with God. I say apparently because I’m not sure how much you can trust a dream where God is squatting more than you at the gym, and then claims while flaunting his heavenly gains that he’ll also whoop you at Mario Kart. It sounds like useless jive I know, but it felt so real! Can I describe poetically just how much? Let’s try this; as real as the dried crust at the corner of your eye, leaking out like sins from the guilt in your wet dreams. THAT REAL. Anyway… I’ve finished my Weetabix and peanut butter slices of whole grain toast, and now just waiting for Mr. Bruce Almighty to show up. Then again, Mr could be a Mrs…I’m assuming the Cristiano Ronaldo-like figure dropping it like it’s hot in my dream was just my subconscious’ representation, of the deity now 20 minutes late.

The doorbell rings…

“Finally!” Rushing downstairs, skipping two or three steps with the grace of an antelope I arrive at the front door. A large silhouette could be made out beyond the small translucent window in the door. With a deep breath, I open it.

Hey, sorry I’m late bro, but you know black people,” the six foot figure in front of me said casually in a voice only slightly deeper than the average male. I was instantly confused and just stared unnecessarily at him, like you do at those old people struggling to perform menial tasks. However, before I could apologise for my lack of social skills he says, “Relax, you haven’t bared witness to anything special, no need to call Archbishop Tutu…or Mr. Farage.” I just picked a form that even a bounty like you would feel comfortable with.” A mischievous grin appeared on his face, he didn’t look like a ripped, Portuguese guy with HD eyebrows, but that playful brotherly banter about my caucasian tendencies suggested that it was the same entity from my dream. Strangely, or maybe not so strangely, I was able to instantly relax as instructed. His presence felt like that especially cosy corner of the teddy bear you always put your mouth on as a kid, but without the smell of stale saliva. Without any procrastinations I led him upstairs to my room, also known as the arena of a thousands smack downs. He followed quietly and calmly; during our ascent up two flights, I didn’t look back in fear of our eyes meeting in an awkward homophobic moment. Yes I’m still that guy, but much improved though. I remember when kids in school used to shout ‘that’s gay’ to any and all male to male interactions. Not even sharing Ribena with a fellow pretend Power Ranger was safe.

As we’re about to enter my room God, or Black Jesus (as I started to refer to him later on) remarked on the poster on my bedroom door, it was of the iconic moment the two African-American athletes stood with their black-gloved fists raised at everyone’s favourite German mad man in protest. “Nooice,” he says imitating a Key & Peele Sketch.

“Argh you not one of them are you?”

What? A hilarious person?” I couldn’t help but laugh a little at his quick response. Was God actually a humorous man? I thought to myself. I guess anyone who creates that insatiable need for the sensual space between a woman’s legs, and STD’s simultaneously, has to be.

We walked in, my room was very presentable, anime figurines dusted and assembled by order of power level, bed covers laid and fresh, and no random underwear laying suspiciously on the floor like road kill. With of course, the ergonomic beauty that was the Nintendo 64 placed ceremoniously on the cleared carpeted floor. The two alien vessel shaped controllers sat provocatively just in front – one red, one blue, but both equal instruments of digital anarchy. I promise these aren’t just adjectives used for the sake of nostalgia ultra – have you ever seen the perspiration on a grown man prepared to risk it all on a green shell in the final lap of Mario Kart? Opponent ahead nearing the end of a long straight before the penultimate bend? Enemy at the rear with a mother-loving red shell? Trust me, rocket launches have been completed under less pressure. I had two ‘gaming’ chairs prepared for us, one was the real deal with in-built two hundred watt speakers, sexual black leather, and enough massage tekkers to turn your lumbar into liquorice (yes, I’m not sure if that’s a good thing either). The other one though…barely fit for a whoring peasant. You can guess which I offered to him, and he gladly accepted the gesture with an arrogant smirk. “You can have it back if you can beat me,” he said just before placing himself down. He had the natural Axel Foley type swagger you would expect from someone who created all things, but did he have the skills to match it? The title is a giveaway, but I had to get you beautiful people interested in my story somehow.

 “Who’s player one?” I asked rhetorically, assuming the universal house rules applied.

I am the original player one.

 “Ha. Funny, but house gaming rules have been sacred since 1990; you can use the blue pad with the decrepit analogue stick.”

Looking for cheap advantages already?

 “Advantages? I’m facing off against God, what bigger disadvantage is there? Or can’t you handle the pressure of an away tie?”

We’ll see, turn on the game and let me bless this house with my greatness.” We both laugh boyishly, and after a couple of seconds performing the mythical cartridge insertion ritual (something known to anyone who’s owned an N64 game for more than two years), the game starts up and our battle can begin.

Thirty minutes in and I’ve already won three Grand-Prix’s to his one. Feeling very good about myself, I smugly watch him try to decide between Mario and Bowser in an effort to change his fortunes, then begin to ask some more prying questions. As the Yoshi island race intro plays out, I start. “You feeling okay? Not sure I’m comfortable making you take any more L’s to be honest, you startin’ to look a bit like Meek Mill’s Holy Ghost.”

It’s not me, Princess Peach is garbage.

 “Speaking of Princesses and Peaches, is sex before marriage okay?”

Do you think it’s okay?

“Well to be honest, yes. I mean don’t you think that as girls aren’t being sold off into marriage for half a dozen goats as soon as they have a solitary pube anymore, and now people can marry at like thirty, they can’t be expected to wait until then to bump and grind?”

Firstly, who said I thought sex was just for marriage?

“Hold on, let me just caress you with this red shell first.”

You clown.” He responds with a kiss of the teeth.

“You know, the Christian man-dem, they’re always trying to preach and control the masses, when they can’t even keep their house in order. They have copious priests knuckle deep in toddlers, cover it up, and then try to tell me that the sweet consenting love I make with bae is wrong. I just don’t get it.”

My son’s mother was conceived outside of wedlock…

 “Yes, but that was an immaculate conception.”

How nice…” He responds suggestively, while trying to keep a smile at bay – like you do when hiding the phone your friend’s frantically looking for.

YES, First place! How does it feel?

 “Bruh, you’re still last overall.”

But did you see that last lap?? I called forth the spirit of Schumacher to help me express that driving excellence. I think you should genuflect to it.

 “To one aaaalright lap in an overall dead Grand Prix performance?”

Why not? Would you not be proud of acquiring a beautiful woman to bed, even if your last three looked like plague-ridden Orks? Remembering that Orks are pretty diseased to begin with.” Fighting the laughter erupting in my stomach I reply,

“Make Beyoncé appear in front of me right now, ready to shun Jay Z’s millions for my overdraft and boot cuts, ‘n’ I’ll genuflect my knee into oblivion for you.”

Why must you have something first before you show me respect?

“Nothing in life is free, sir.”

So why should the promise of the afterlife be? Why not have rules on pre-marital relations as one measure of eligibility?

 “Because surviving this messed up world long enough to die of old age without becoming a sociopathic riddler, a p**** grabber or Baine is enough of an achievement.”

What happened to your faith in humanity?


I see, that was a weird one…and also Trump…it’s possible that the man in the mirror could have a lot to say on those matters.”

A few moments pass; while I dissect the connotations of his statement, I understand that this God is the type who prefers you to achieve understanding through introspection than any spoon fed enlightenment. This led me to the decision that conversation topics are better kept light. Especially during Mario Kart, I could try and bring them up again when we play a more appropriate game, like Resident Evil.

I’ve only got time for one more Grand Prix.

 Time? Surely, time ticks at your behest, oh great one?”

Not while I’m in my Black Jesus costume.

“Fine, let’s do a time trial competition instead, no weapons, no excuses.”

Excellent, this is where I shine.

 “You haven’t shone since the Old Testament mate.”

With that last little jibe, I selected Toad and begun my Time Trial on Koopa Troopa Beach. Fifteen more blissful, victory saturated minutes went by, where, in-between his distinctly mortal lap times, we joked and discussed everything from runny fake tan, to Pokémon Sun & Moon. With it, all culminating in why men have an empty space between ball sack and anus when he could have easily fit an extra inch or two of penis there. Needless-to-say, many soul-nourishing laughs were had during his visit, and who knows – if I ask nicely, next time he might bring MJ with him and we can have a three-way ladder match on No Mercy. Until then, it was Goodbye and Amen to God aka Black Jesus.

 The End

By Alpha Maurice Cidade Cauwenbergh


© Alpha Maurice Cidade Cauwenbergh – Storyteller, Poet & Intern at Wordsmith Inc 2015. Unauthorised use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Alpha Maurice Cidade Cauwenbergh – Storyteller, Poet & Intern at Wordsmith Inc with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

A Love Letter To Stephen King

Red Coffin


“The things we hold dear, are the very things that ground us in the real, the now and the ever after. Release your grip on the precious and all things turn to face the wind – gone forever with the dust.”

Within a tall man’s paradigm, brush strokes of violent winds scatter amber particles onto a scenic canvas.

Moments pass impatiently as the air whistles and howls fearsomely.

Then from within the eye of this microclimate, a barely realised silhouette stood. Its head stooped towards the earth to shield it from the fervently blowing dry rust. This shape belonged to a man…born of flesh and bone – of mother’s blood and mother’s love, but raised in a land of stone. His name was unknown…The inhabitants of this small mountain town believe that only the angel of death knows, and even it lost the will to speak it. To those from the far away city of endless night, he is referred to as The Dust. Nevertheless, the more important question for those living on this mountain is why has he travelled this far? Surely, no man or woman here has earned an audience with him? This was a nothing place…even those who lived here prayed to be elsewhere…crops grew impotently, for rain came inconsistently and the soil lay inhospitably. No business worthy of his all-encompassing blight could be found here…yet here he was. As his reasons weren’t substantial enough for city legend, urban myth, or even village folklore, he avoided his usual musical score of murder and shadow-cloaked fornication. Instead, he left the turbulent weather and gently entered the first building to become visible.

 The building was home to a family…one interesting enough at first glance to nullify his blood lust, coagulating it into a paste that couldn’t flow freely. Whereby this lust often found itself, pooling in arms that were choking life from flesh, in this moment it couldn’t and his arms were instead resting patiently by the man’s side. With all the noise of the erratic winds crashing on this wooden box of a home, the family didn’t even notice the man had entered. He stood tall and broad, covering up the doorframe like an eclipse. He wore a long heavy black winter jacket that was creased and laden with scuffs, scratches, and loose threads. His large rimmed, jaguar-skinned hat rested on his head, still tilted forward like a jaded and weary companion – it covered most of his battle torn face. There was a strange gentleman to his right who lay dormant on a ragged looking sofa, sprawled out like a cat content with all that made up its existence. It was cold in the house but he wasn’t wearing much, a dirt covered singlet, oversized boxers that visibly yearned for fabric softener, and exposed bare feet with toes that cried their own individual stories of neglect and pain. To his left a women standing in a room that was kitchen and bedroom combined. She stood by what the people here called a sink, her back to him with her hands fiddling inside it. She was peculiarly tall for a woman, she wore a cream skirt that reached her knees and a light blouse with a summer print more common in the city. He wondered again, why in this weather someone would be dressed so nonchalantly? She then flicked her blonde wiry hair from off her face revealing blood soaked hands, ‘she must be gutting some small animal in preparation for the family’s dinner he thought.

 A little boy was sitting on the floor playing with cloudy marbles, probably trying to pass the time until dinner. He was nothing more than skin and bones, covered in brown rags that were masquerading as clothing. He was pale with jet-black hair that covered most of his face. Only a mouth with thin pink lips that moved as if softly reciting an ancient curse were visible. The boy’s hair and frailness resembled that of the horizontal man in the other room. ‘Like father like son’ he mumbled…the notion of which lead him to focus on how different the mum was to the rest….

 “Are you going to stand there all day?” a soft voice said. He looked at the boy but his focus was still gravity bound and following the marbles rolling around in his palm. The child-like voice was the mother’s, realising this he turned directly to her. “Are you?” “No, just for however long it takes me to finish preparing the baby.” He didn’t understand what she meant; it appeared that she was conversing with herself. He wasn’t a patient man, so decided to approach her, but he wasn’t a stupid man either so he did it slowly…his killer instinct had taught him that much. “Come in and have a seat…I’ll be finished preparing the baby soon,” she says noticing his advances. ‘Her senses are as fine tuned as mine,’ he thought…before saying another word he scanned the room again, noticing that only she seemed to be aware of his presence. The boy hadn’t even flinched although he was standing only inches away. This proximity to both persons was calculated – being the beast that he was, he’d already planned the distance needed to sever her spine while using the boy as a battering ram. All in the blink of an eye and without even interrupting his approach and following statement.

“You are not like the other people of this village, turn and face me woman, and state your name.”

“In a second, the baby’s almost done,” she responds casually. He didn’t like her flippantness, he was a man used to be being feared by all who knew of his gruesome legend. Man, woman, child or beast would cower at the mere mention of him…children even sang songs on the hallowed eve about his victims returning from the abyss. His blood lust started to flow again…

“Woman, you are already using up countless lives just being in the same room as me, I suggest you turn around and correct your tone.”

“Relax…I mean no disrespect…I know The Dust is to be feared…I just don’t.” He was so shocked by her answer that for the first time in his inhumanly long life he took a backward step. How did she know who he was without even a look in his direction? Even more disconcerting, she didn’t care. Stood behind her was the man who was said to have retired death itself, yet no danger did she see. The man with the kill speed of a puma, yet no distance did she heed. His startled gaze quickly changed back to a more familiar one, the predator’s stare he wore like a mealtime apron. “Ah it’s done…she’s ready to go back home, look.” The woman gently turned around to face him… her body rotating, every inch gradually presented revealed scars and sores that detailed her insanity like tapestry work of the tormented. The horror of it could even give pause to a man such as him. Her face unnervingly familiar to him, looked as though it were an imitation of flesh, life and vascular prosperity. However, her scent had the same poignant sweaty stink of a caged animal full of the verve that fear and desperation bring. Her thin blouse was mildly transparent at the front, and through it, his acutely sharp eyes could make out a tribal tattoo, one of a forbidden magic he had the displeasure of encountering before. Just below the ink scratching of mystic scripture on her skin, her hands waited patiently for his gaze. They were close together and cupped as though containing a neighbourly offering, the truth though…far from it. Within those palms were the red-ish pink and fragile dismembered pieces of a newborn child, thick clumps of blood and innards were dripping off the little, pale skinned limbs and landing onto the woman’s boney toes. As he watched her wriggle the human sludge off them, he began to hasten his plan to kill her. Not in retaliation for this offering, but simply because his instincts screamed of a future danger he could not yet understand in fullness.

The man, for the first time in his long life of brooding and slaughter, took a backward step. His body seemed to understand the situation better than his mind, the long bristly hairs that covered his body began to awaken from the static in the air – caused by the friction of wills between the two. The previously stale air within the room seemed to be resuscitated by it, and crawled into all the cracks between flesh and cloth, like the cold perverted midnight wind that reaches underneath a sleeping woman’s gown – its light inquisitive fingers passing over the goose bumps that lined his skin. He’d never felt such sensations before and wanted them to cease immediately, he quickly deduced that however demented this woman was, she would still hold a semblance of care for the family members still breathing this electrified air. He turns quickly back towards the boy playing with marbles on the floor, so quickly as to make a mockery of the laws his large frame should be slave to. Grabs him by his frail neck and lifts him up into a defensive position, he was the shield to his sword. The boy’s body flaps about like a rag doll, but he doesn’t make a sound. The man prepares to use this emotional leverage in his vicious assault of the women – still standing there, presenting him with the scarlet soaked baby parts. Before he can begin, the woman says “What’s the use in bringing him this close, if he can’t see what I’m about to do? You should at least pick them up for him first” The man could still think as fast as ever and so knew straight away the meaning of her words; he jerked the boy’s head around without care for any damage he might do. There beyond the scruffy dark hair that stretched over his face like wild vines were the empty oozing sockets. He then switched his gazed to the floor were the boy had been playing, just as he anticipated, what used to be eyes were now the cloudy ill-shaped marbles he used for some kind of perverted amusement. His experience of these sorts of ungodly things lent itself to a rapid understanding, that this brittle-boned boy he had hanging by his neck in his left hand, was long since dead. He must have been an earlier victim of hers and now was being kept alive by a holistic dark magic. Sorceresses of this level were believed to be extinct in the west world, but here one was, plain clothed, wild-eyed and blooded with infant carcass. The man known as legend the entire region over was in fear for his life. Unintentionally his pupils darted right like an exasperated hound, then instantly bounced back to centre view as though that hound was chained to a pillar. The woman did not miss this momentary glance, and she responded to it in eerie tone, “You thinking about my husband in the other room? Worry not, he won’t come in here and interfere with the ritual. I ate his heart about a week ago.” All avenues for tactical advantage were being closed off; he was realizing that a death match with an nth level black raven witch was all that remained. Unplanned, closed quarter fights with such creatures were suicide. He gritted his cavity-ridden teeth in preparation, readied his grip to crush the boy’s neck and ensure this undead thing could not be used against him.

Before any of those thoughts were transferred into action, the blonde haired creature of darkness, still maintaining an unassuming earthly form whispered, “Be still your bones, and be fixed your stare.” The man found himself frozen to the stone floor beneath his boots; she had effortlessly snatched all motion away from him – not even the sweat on his brow dared disobey. Another few words left the woman’s lips, but in a language he didn’t understand. This time the tattooed scriptures on her stomach glowed a deep yellow in response. Before he could digest how ominous a moment that was, she began, with both hands to insert the thick, dripping and lumpy morsels of baby flesh into herself. Never, among the countless murderous acts he’d committed or been a party to, had he seen a sight as bone-numbingly repugnant as this. Her eyes recoiled back into her skull as she hunched over, the vertebrae of her spine visible through her blouse, as if a prehistoric creature were about to hatch from the sack of skin that concealed it. Her legs spread, feet barely gripping the floor on account of the bodily fluids that continued to drip and trickle down from her crotch. Grunting deeply like a possessed animal, she forced more and more of the soft-butchered baby inside her.

The man’s vision began to become blurred, a feeling of warmth slowly enveloped his body. He was trying to keep his vision focused on his adversary but the warmth kept washing, further and further inland from the coastal shores of textile perception, until the heat was all he could think of. It was familiar…almost paternal in its radiating kiss. The only thing that seemed to linger from the satanic scene of the woman’s ritual, was the unmistakable iron laced stink of blood and human insides. The lethally sharp cognition that had overcome foes of the past began to regress together with his vision, like father and son walking hand in hand into a soft oblivion. Just before all turned to darkness, two voices from a distant past are heard – 

“Are you sure this is what you want? We can still save her if we use the philosopher’s stone…”

 “The things we hold dear, are the very things that ground us in the real, the now and the ever after. Release your grip on the precious and all things turn to face the wind – gone forever with the dust.”

 To be continued

By Alpha Maurice Cidade Cauwenbergh

© Alpha Maurice Cidade Cauwenbergh – Storyteller, Poet & Intern at Wordsmith Inc 2015. Unauthorised use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Alpha Maurice Cidade Cauwenbergh – Storyteller, Poet & Intern at Wordsmith Inc with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

True Gold


Figures slender and dark shift shape, contorting to the needs of the terrain. They are wary of the bright eyes that search these warm nights, inauspicious glares looking to reveal the truth of those seeking emancipation. No matter the decade, country, city or town, young boys from this continent always fear the price of forgiveness.

The price this evening is True Gold – mother’s gold…and having escaped the inept watch of a least favoured uncle the run begins. As thin legs and flat feet beat the ground perpetually, they effortlessly navigate the uneven, cracked dirt road of their rural province. The purple twilight is a canvas for a dying flame and its air feels calming; cooling the heat of guilt that often emanates from the brow of sinners and delinquents alike. Whichever title more relevant is an after thought, and the only information concerning the youthful mind is the search for the forgiveness held inside mother’s True Gold.

All Dialogue Translated from French

-“Yaya hurry up! You’re so slow!”

-“It’s not fair you’re older than me!”

-“If your skinny legs make us not get back in time, I’m blaming it all on you and I’ll laugh as I watch you get beaten with the belt.”

-“Well Mummy said that I’ll be faster than you one day!”

-“Not if I eat all your meat! Now hurry up, we have to get back before she arrives!”

The boys, using shortcuts tamed over years of juvenile adventuring, are nearing their destination, a great river that separates two cities with a colonial history akin to sibling rivalry. It was at this location earlier that day that the first of several bad decisions was made…

 -“Eight, nine, ten, eleven, TWELVE!”

-“See I told you I could do twelve.”

-“Yes you are so strong on pushups…but can you do a cartwheel?” As Yaya watched Julie the love of his very brief life effortlessly spiral across the riverbank, he could not enjoy her grace as it were meant to be, because all he could think is of outdoing her with another more audacious feat of his own. But just as he was about to interrupt her gloating, his eye flicking subconsciously to his brother. He was standing several meters away with another, engaging deeply in what appeared to him as the kind of heated discussions they’ve had about which character of their animated fantasy show was stronger. He was not very good at reading teenage body language…because second later his brother and the other were kissing. In his shock he quickly looked at Julie and exclaimed

-“Look, look!”


-“Can’t you see? They’re kissing”

-“What? You’re so silly, you’re obviously just making excuses because you can’t beat my cartwheel, see – I am the best!”

-“NO, watch this!” After ten more minutes of their blow-for-blow battle of physical aptitude, Yaya began to tire. As he did awkward silence befell them, not even the vehicles passing on the dirt road behind them could shatter the mute sphere they found themselves in. He attentively observed her slowly catching her breath, and for a fleeting moment something sparked in him, a slight, supple bolt of pubescent sexual awareness. However before the onset hormone shift could take place the feeling was gone, and he noticed her facial expressions of boredom. Worried that she would soon leave, he rummaged through his cluttered mind for anything interesting. And in a corner reserved for secrets and guilt he found it. “Julie I forgot to tell you, I found something amazing.”


-“It’s a magic artifact…”

-“What’s an ar-ti-fact?”

-“It’s something that looks normal but has special powers.”

-“What kind of special powers?”

-“Erm like making you fly, breath under water or run really fast.”

-“Hahaha I don’t believe in things like that.”

-“Why not? They’re real, even my mum says so, you know my uncle even has some he said the doctor gave him to make strong with women.”

-“Strong with women?? Maybe you need that because you can’t even beat me in a fight.”

-“I don’t need to because I have True Gold.”

-“Show me.”

-“Yes but you can’t tell anyone about it…even my brother doesn’t know that I have it.” Yaya walked towards Julie, reached into the abnormally deep pocket of his dusty shorts and pulled out his closed fist. Inside was the treasured artifact. Was he was trying to build suspense, or maybe just attempting to prolong her company…either way she wasn’t a patient girl and demanded to see the so-called True Gold.

-“Let me see it then?”

-“Yes but be careful, I found it hidden in my mum’s room…she keeps it hidden because she says that if she takes it to work, it will reveal her secrets”

-“So its power is revealing truth? That’s rubbish; I thought it would be something cool like the power to run faster than a cheetah.”

-“It is cool, just look at it.” Yaya opened his now sweaty palm, exposing the True Gold to the elements and watched Julie’s face as her eyes absorbed its latent sun colored gleam. She took a second before reacting, and then looked up at Yaya smiling with deep maternal warmth far beyond her years.

Now back at the same place a different tone fills the night…

-“Have you found the True Gold yet??!”

-“No, not yet!”

-“Look harder, Yaya!

-“Why did you even take it? You know how important it is to mother, she is going to kill you if you don’t find it.”

-“I know, I know, but I swear I put it back in my pocket after showing her.”

-“Why even show her?? You want to impress her? Didn’t your twelve push-ups do that?? Would have been easier to just kiss her.”

-“No, that’s disgusting, she’s my friend.”

-“Well if you don’t find it you won’t live to see her again. Lets check by the bushes by that river edge.”

Two spirits connected by the psychological chains of blood and history search the topography of their surroundings for salvation…so desperate, they kneel in the moist earth, plunging fists into its loose top soil hoping to feel the familiar shape and texture of the lost treasure. The search was prolonged and intense, to the point that fingers were beginning to cramp under the previously soft resistance of the land, and without the sunlight to aid them, eyes were functioning at below optimum capacity. Surrendering to their fate seemed inevitable, like the exposing teardrop of the melancholy first blink. However just before the acceptance of all that could befall them, Yaya’s mind twitched…

-“Hey, stop digging in the dirt like a dog, I have a thought…”


-“You know…I think that girl you’re so fond of has probably taken it…maybe to give to her boyfriend.”

-“Shut up, she doesn’t have a boyfriend, and anyway I don’t believe she would take it.”

-“Yaya I don’t think you can take that risk…” Begrudgingly he had to accept that there was great validity to those words, and so he stood up, covered in dark mud like a child role-playing a Navy Seal’s secret incursion onto foreign land. After taking a few moments to mentally map out the route to Julie’s house, he began a slow defeated jog towards his new goal.

Thirty minutes later he arrived at the edge of the city center… The city lights that were like small, glowing fireflies at a distance had now become clear beacons of commerce and life. Cars of varying size and make zoomed by while food vendors proclaimed the excellence of their barbecued poultry, and shop retailers the complex quality of their fabric; the night was saturated with the intent to sell. Most in his proximity ignore him, after all what use is a child with no money here? Tired from his travels, the young boy walked slowly across the wide concrete road onto the pedestrian path.

-“Be careful Yaya! If one of these cars hit you you’ll end up looking like yesterday’s goat.”

-“I know, I’m not blind.”

-“Yeah yeah…so where does your pretty thief live?”

-“Whatever, she is a good girl, I’ll show you…Just follow me”

-“When do I not little brother…”

Finally outside the place he was told she lived at, and it looked very different then he’d imagined, the large stone building of modern design was somber and less inviting than he felt it should be. Not letting that peculiarity slow his mission’s progress, he rang the doorbell. Temporarily forgetting his age and place he was oblivious to how this situation looked. Before that knowledge could grace him, the front door opened…a mountain of a man stepped forward into the night-light.

-“Boy, why are you ringing my door bell?

-“Sorry sir, but can I speak Julie?”

-“Who?? Listen I don’t need lost street boys waking me up for no reason! Please go away.”

-“I’m not a street boy, I have a house and it’s nice, we even have a big TV.”

-“What are you talking to me about your TV for? I need to sleep. If you want money go and polish some drunk business man’s shoes”

-“Sorry sir I just want to speak Julie Mokemo, doesn’t she live here? She told me she lives here.” The large man kissed his teeth…scanned him thoroughly and said

-“Boy, I don’t know any Julie, but there is Charlotte Mokemo who runs the house of ndúmbás across the road over there”

-“House of what?”

-“Don’t worry you’ll see when you get there, plus I remember hearing that Charlotte had a daughter so maybe that’s the Julie girl you’re looking for”

-“Ah thank you mister!”

-“Yeah, just make sure you at least wash your muddy hands before you go in their, now go away” Yaya barely hearing the man’s advice rushed across the road to where he had pointed. Directing his older brother to keep up, he arrived at the open door in a pant, still blissfully unaware as only a child can be of how wrong it was to run around a city centre covered in mud stains. He locked onto the first person that looked his way and said.

-“ Excuses me, madame, have you seen Julie Mokemo? I need to ask her something important!”

-“Slow down young one, you can’t speak to a lady like myself without introducing yourself first like a gentlemen.”

-“Sorry, My name’s Yaya and I lost something, and really need to find it. I think Julie might know where it is, can you please get her for me?”

-“Okay, well firstly my name is Genevieve and it’s a pleasure to meet you, even if you look like you just crawled out of a river. Secondly, if you’re referring to my boss’s daughter she obviously isn’t here. This is no place for young ones.”

-“But, I have to find the True Gold or…”

-“True Gold?? What is that?”

-“It’s special gold that has magical powers, it reveals the truth of your heart.” Yaya heard his brother’s voice in the back remark, “So that’s why you wanted to show it to that pretty thief”. Ignoring it he continued his pleas.

-“Madame, please help me find her, she’ll know where it is. The man across the road said that she might be here.”

-“Calm down…What I can do is ask Charlotte too come and see you, in fact we’re not that busy at the moment just go up the stairs into her office. Just don’t get any dirt on the walls!”

-“Okay, thank you”

As the answers to all his questions approached like a stranger in the dark, he hoped they lead him to the truth and thus the forgiveness he ultimately sought. As he ascended the slim creaky stairway, he remembered the door lady’s words and kept himself as far from the walls as three-dimensional flesh and bones allowed. As he reached the first floor he saw Charlotte’s office door in front, and on either side the hallway extended further than his expectations of the building’s capacity. He was pleased to be getting closer to Julie, however loose of a thread that sentiment was. He tried to wipe his hands clean, but the mud has dried and without the softening caress of water would remain so. Giving that up he raised his hands to knock on the door, preparing in his mind what he’d say to Julie’s mother. Just at the moment a familiar voice calls out in a loud shrill from down the left hallway.

-“Yannick!!, what are you doing here??” The boy turned to his left the see an anguished face appear from between a door left slightly a jar. “What are you doing??” The woman ran out grasping her soft lacy gown tightly, grabbed Yaya by the shoulders and shouted at him, “ Why are you so filthy?? Do you know what time it is?? Why are you not at home?! I told my useless brother to watch you!”

-“ Mummy…do you work here? Is this the restaurant? I couldn’t tell, sorry but I came to find Julie.”

-“Charlotte’s daughter?? Why would she be here?? Why are you not at home? Start explaining yourself Yaya, or I’m going to get very angry!”

-“I’m so sorry mummy but I…I accidently took your True Gold, I didn’t mean to and then I think I lost it…” His voice started to quiver like the soft vibrations in the air before a downpour, he used all his strength to hold it back.

-“Accidentally?? Did you take my wedding ring from my room Yaya, and now lose it?! Do you know how much it’s worth??”

-“I know it’s special, you always say…I’m sorry…I will find it!”

-“How will you find it out at night like this?! You can’t even tie your own shoe laces.”

-“That’s why Simon is helping me find it, he came with me, and even helped me dig for it.” The boy’s mother paused, taking several seconds to regain control of her emotions, then knelt down to eye level and with a deep empathy saying quietly”

-“Yannick, are you seeing your brother again? I thought that had stopped?”

-“Why does he have to stop? He’s my brother he’s always with me mummy.”

-“It’s not good…I know how much you loved him, he and your father were my world too…but we have to be strong and move on…they’re not here to help anymore, we can only rely on each other.”

-“But…I like him being here…he’s the only person that plays with me anymore…” Yaya couldn’t hold back the tears anymore…any thought of letting the spirit of his brother go broke his small, fragile heart. Seeing the hands of despair begin to reach across her son’s mud-patched face, she stopped her suggestions. Grabbing his hand passionately his mother stood up.

-“Stop crying Yaya, we’re going to find my ring, ‘C’est du vrais Or’ so we can’t just let it vanish, can we? Yaya looked up at his mother, his tears breaking a path through the dry earth on his face.

-“Yes…True Gold.”

The End

By Alpha Maurice Cidade Cauwenbergh

© Alpha Maurice Cidade Cauwenbergh – Storyteller, Poet & Intern at Wordsmith Inc. 2015. Unauthorised use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Alpha Maurice Cidade Cauwenbergh – Storyteller, Poet & Intern at Wordsmith Inc. with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.