ROSESSSZZZ

Everyone was discussing Valentine’s plans, the predictable couple’s circuit - fixed price menu, followed by drinks, then ... actually no-one mentioned that.  Down the corridor, in the cleaner’s cupboard a more serious discussion occurred.
“I’ll take her out, she’ll eat her body weight in steak, drink a bottle of wine and sleep, fat cow.  I’ll come to you then,” Pat said.
“That’d be sooo good,” Kim, looked at him from wide hazel eyes, “if you can ...”
He brushed her blonde hair back and kissed her; “’Course I can,” he muttered.
Desire overtook them.  He pulled her tights and briefs down and pushed her against the wall, unzipping.
“Oh, Pat,” she gasped as he thrust inside her.
The door opened and the cleaner looked in.
“Get out!” shouted Pat roughly.
“Oh God!” Kim cried as the door slammed shut.
“I’ll talk to her,” grunted Pat.

That conversation was short; “Tell anyone and it’s job centre time.”

The cleaner stared downwards, brown eyes sad.
“Do you understand?” he checked.
“I won’t say anything.  True love is beautiful.  You should celebrate.”
“We will.”
She hesitated, then handed him a card; “diffirT sells beautiful roses.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.”

Late that night, Kim’s doorbell rang, she answered dressed in mini skirt and top.  Pat held a huge bunch of red roses.  Kim gasped, the flowers were beautiful; crimson, luscious, smooth stemmed.  “They’re amazing!” she cried, “let me put them in water!”

She filled the vase in her bedroom, dashed in plant food and put the blooms in, arranging them lovingly.
Pat watched her; “I thought you only had eyes for me!”
She turned immediately and he swept her into his arms; “Fucking tedious evening,” he muttered, “so glad I’m here.”
In bed they tore at each others’ clothes, both aware of the beautiful rose smell.  It became over-powering, a heady scent that made them more aroused.  Pat was hypnotised by Kim’s eyes, Kim ground her hips desperately against him, moaning.  It was the best it had been and they’d barely started.  She guided him inside her, bucking against him insistently, he held her down and moved into her hard; “I can’t take my eyes off you!” he groaned.

Unseen the roses grew taller, the stems so long the blooms touched the ceiling.  The vase crashed to the floor, but the couple were too busy copulating to care.  Kim experienced a most intense orgasm and screamed.  Pat was in that moment of heaven when he knew he was going to let go, when; “Fuck, what’s that!” he cried.

It happened in seconds, rope like tendrils wrapped round their bodies, tying them together.
“What is it?” Kim cried, unable to move the binds were so tight.  She was aware of something in her face, a rose.  She looked down their bodies.  Their legs were tethered together by long green stems, so were their hips and their arms.
“What the fuck’s going on?” shouted Pat, “Call the Police!”
“No-one will hear.  The neighbours are away.”
“If this is a fucking joke, it’s not fucking funny!”
“Pat, I can feel something, my God!”
Those smooth stems had been for show; now thorns appeared, pushing through from inside the stems and into flesh, gradually burrowing deeper as the couple screamed in agony.  The wounds were shallow; it would take ages for them to bleed to death, but no-one would find them for days anyway.

THE RATTLIN' DOOR

Since I’ve left my home and come here, I haven’t left my room – unless necessary.  It’s secure from the world, just me, poetry, literature, a haven.  Although ... I think I’m supposed to be waiting for something and I’m not sure what.  This situation I’m in is strange and I don’t know what the rules are.  My smart phone is on the bed, but do I text or will I be aloof and not say anything all day?  How do I play?

At exactly 5am every morning, my door rattles and I wake with a start.  The room isn’t safe anymore, I block any speculation or thought, I cover my head with the pillow and eventually it stops.  I get up and go to work.

Valentine’s Day finds me off sick.  I like to believe flu, but it could be malfunction of social face.  I find myself dozing, when the door starts that menacing rattling at exactly 5pm, unscheduled, unexpected, twice as unnerving.  Because it’s not the usual hour, it occurs to me to wonder what could be there.  I stir and there’s a bang, like something really powerful hit the panels – could it be hoofs?  One of D.H. Lawrence’s horses from the Rainbow?  Oh the power of sexual desire and what it can be mistaken for!  I wrap the duvet around me tightly, feverish, excited, lusty.

Rattle, thud and a snide whisper in my brain, do we mean it when we say all those I love yous or are we just clinging to rocks in a storm?  It maybe Ted Hughes’ Thought Fox, leading me down another pointless avenue of enquiry.  If I follow I’ll end up with Sylvia Plath’s mushrooms in my brain and well, she couldn’t face Valentine’s Day, could she?  Action is required here; all I need to focus on is the fact I’ll be over this sickness and back at work at 6.30am tomorrow.

Then I wonder and I fear, more than anything, that I’ll hear the sliver of feathers and my visitor will be some grim and ghastly raven, come to haunt me with what I’ve lost and should’ve held onto ... nevermore, nevermore can I go back ... too scary, too scary!

Finally I hear a human voice - my name is called.  The door crashes open, the lock is broken and you’re standing there with a Valentine’s card and a bunch of red roses; “Why the hell haven’t you texted all week?  Why won’t you let me in?”

Giddy with relief, I sit up and perform the smile that won’t answer any questions; “Sorry, love, I thought it was the God Awful Truth come knocking.”