ambermb

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I have 3 stories published in one collection on the site.
My stories have been read 1708 times

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Amber Massie-Blomfield

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My stories

The Light We Make

Once upon a time there were stars in the sky and now I think I see them reflected on the ocean's surface, but it isn't that. We are stirring up little bursts of light as we swim, marking a trail behind us. We daren't give this phenomenon a name, but when we see it we laugh and splash, and at last we touch each other, press against each other, in the weightlessness of the sea. Our movements create a light so great that if there were men in space ships looking down they'd make it out through their telescopes and wonder what that glowing eruption was. But we are alone. I see nothing beyond the light we have created. And slowly, he begins to fade into it too, I loose sight of his nose, and his mouth, so I close my eyes and watch the colours moving behind them. It is a long time before I start to feel myself disappear, but I do, limb by limb, until all that is left of me, all that I am, is the movement of him inside me.

A Thousand Little Squares

I drew close to him as we walked through the sugar clipped darkness. There were stars like cubes of ice and a fat overdue moon. He drew me close. His body's warmth fostered the sky's blackness. Some ancient architect must have conceived the nook George pushed me into, as if looking down through the elapse of history he was complicit with his desire. But the contrast of heat and night was unbearable. 'Not here'- a disembodied whisper, dropping through the breath misty air as if weighted with cement.

angels stick their fingers in electrical sockets

So their first sunset together was there, in that strip of land between sky and choked up river, abandoned by man to a tyranny of TVs, castrated at the coppery holes where their plugs should be, but glorious, nonetheless, radiating the bloodshot sky. As if to say: forget the news today. Forget Eastenders and Celebrity Big Brother. Not today. Here is the sun. A pile of forgotten fridges conspired together to achieve what failed at Babel; noiselessly they piled on top of each other, suspending doors like paralysed limbs, holding their words and constraining their breath, afraid to utter in the buzzing reports of their occupied cousins the burden of their task, lest they invoke the fate of their biblical predecessors. A shard of memory, abruptly, inappropriately: the school hall warning not to climb inside abandoned fridges- the threatened danger remained implicit, compellingly, so Jonas had searched for abandoned fridges all afternoon, chasing the salty thrill-fear of what he might find inside. Another time, another town. The people there paid to have their abandoned fridges taken to places like these, so their children couldn't climb inside them. Suddenly the taste of the thought displeased him, and he spat it on the ground beside him, where it congealed with the ever-waiting dust.