Incomplete: Fiction

When I am just too lazy to write, yet for some strange, incomprehensible reasons want to, this is what I do: pull some old, dusty file from my harddisk and Voila!...

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Luscious Lips – which were what irked an itch, like feather fanning bare sole, under the dim street lamp. She almost hid her small frame in the shadow. Drawing closer, cigarette smoke billowed from the petal of a rose; slender hips under tight skirt sitting on knee-high boots and tube-top covered heaving, perky swells. Clad all black, she blended even more into the dark. As if she had fallen asleep and awoken a cold rain-draped kitten, she took a wobbly step towards him. Silence – just a little curly smile lingers at those lips. A whiff of cheap perfume musty with sweat impregnated the sultry air. Her powdered, oval face with high-drawn brows befits a demure beauty in ancient Chinese paintings.

He glided with brisk strides into the dark alley without as much as a blink, long-sleeved shirt unbuttoned over cotton singlet, fluttering. The young lady followed, small bottoms swaying sweetly, like a dog delighted in her owner’s presence, save the tail.

The two shadows basking in the pale moonlight danced with long legs and arms along cracked white walls. He came to a paint-shredded metal gate screeching in the evening breeze, pushed in to face what looked like the back of a colloquy one-storey shop house. Yellow light traversed through the only window...

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Somehow, fatigue and inspiration combined on that fateful day, the former weighting heavy, the latter, diminishing. Thus, this piece remains what it is: incomplete.