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rhiannon Mar 2019
Once upon a time there was a special girl called Sonya Randall. She was on the way to see her Dad Tristan Godfrey, when she decided to take a short cut through Hyde Park.

It wasn't long before Sonya got lost. She looked around, but all she could see were trees. Nervously, she felt into her bag for her favourite toy, Laura, but Laura was nowhere to be found! Sonya began to panic. She felt sure she had packed Laura. To make matters worse, she was starting to feel hungry.

Unexpectedly, she saw a naughty Uni-pug dressed in a blue dungarees disappearing into the trees.

"How odd!" thought Sonya.

For the want of anything better to do, she decided to follow the peculiarly dressed Uni-pug. Perhaps it could tell him the way out of the forest.

Eventually, Sonya reached a clearing. In the clearing were two houses, one made from peas and one made from cakes.

Sonya could feel her tummy rumbling. Looking at the houses did nothing to ease her hunger.

"Hello!" she called. "Is anybody there?"

Nobody replied.

Sonya looked at the roof on the closest house and wondered if it would be rude to eat somebody else's chimney. Obviously it would be impolite to eat a whole house, but perhaps it would be considered acceptable to nibble the odd fixture or lick the odd fitting, in a time of need.

A cackle broke through the air, giving Sonya a fright. A witch jumped into the space in front of the houses. She was carrying a cage. In that cage was Laura!

"Laura!" shouted Sonya. She turned to the witch. "That's my toy!"

The witch just shrugged.

"Give Laura back!" cried Sonya.

"Not on your nelly!" said the witch.

"At least let Laura out of that cage!"

Before she could reply, the naughty Uni-pug in the blue dungarees rushed in from a footpath on the other side of the cleaning.

"Hello Big Uni-pug," said the witch.

"Good morning." The Uni-pug noticed Laura. "Who is this?"

"That's Laura," explained the witch.

"Ooh! Laura would look lovely in my house. Give it to me!" demanded the Uni-pug.

The witch shook her head. "Laura is staying with me."

"Um... Excuse me..." Sonya interrupted. "Laura lives with me! And not in a cage!"

Big Uni-pug ignored her. "Is there nothing you'll trade?" he asked the witch.

The witch thought for a moment, then said, "I do like to be entertained. I'll release him to anybody who can eat a whole front door."

Big Uni-pug looked at the house made from cakes and said, "No problem, I could eat an entire house made from cakes if I wanted to."

"There's no need to show off," said the witch. Just eat one front door and I'll let you have Laura."

Sonya watched, feeling very worried. She didn't want the witch to give Laura to Big Uni-pug. She didn't think Laura would like living with a naughty Uni-pug, away from her house and all her other toys.

Big Uni-pug put on his bib and withdraw a knife and fork from his pocket.

"I'll eat this whole house," said Big Uni-pug. "Just you watch!"

Big Uni-pug pulled off a corner of the front door of the house made from cakes. He gulped it down smiling, and went back for more.

   And more.

      And more.

Eventually, Big Uni-pug started to get bigger - just a little bit bigger at first. But after a few more fork-fulls of cakes, he grew to the size of a large snowball - and he was every bit as round.

"Erm... I don't feel too good," said Big Uni-pug.

Suddenly, he started to roll. He'd grown so round that he could no longer balance!

"Help!" he cried, as he rolled off down a ***** into the forest.

Big Uni-pug never finished eating the front door made from cakes and Laura remained trapped in the witch's cage.

"That's it," said the witch. "I win. I get to keep Laura."

"Not so fast," said Sonya. "There is still one front door to go. The front door of the house made from peas. And I haven't had a turn yet.

"I don't have to give you a turn!" laughed the witch. "My game. My rules."

The woodcutter's voice carried through the forest. "I think you should give her a chance. It's only fair."

"Fine," said the witch. "But you saw what happened to the Uni-pug. She won't last long."

"I'll be right back," said Sonya.

"What?" said the witch. "Where's your sense of impatience? I thought you wanted Laura back."

Sonya ignored the witch and gathered a hefty pile of sticks. She came back to the clearing and started a small camp fire. Carefully, she broke off a piece of the door of the house made from peas and toasted it over the fire. Once it had cooked and cooled just a little, she took a bite. She quickly devoured the whole piece.

Sonya sat down on a nearby log.

"You fail!" cackled the witch. "You were supposed to eat the whole door."

"I haven't finished," explained Sonya. "I am just waiting for my food to go down."

When Sonya's food had digested, she broke off another piece of the door made from peas. Once more, she toasted her food over the fire and waited for it to cool just a little. She ate it at a leisurely pace then waited for it to digest.

Eventually, after several sittings, Sonya was down to the final piece of the door made from peas. Carefully, she toasted it and allowed it to cool just a little. She finished her final course. Sonya had eaten the entire front door of the house made from peas.

The witch stamped her foot angrily. "You must have tricked me!" she said. "I don't reward cheating!"

"I don't think so!" said a voice. It was the woodcutter. He walked back into the clearing, carrying his axe. "This little girl won fair and square. Now hand over Laura or I will chop your broomstick in half."

The witch looked horrified. She grabbed her broomstick and placed it behind her. Then, huffing, she opened the door of the cage.

Sonya hurried over and grabbed Laura, checking that her favourite toy was all right. Fortunately, Laura was unharmed.

Sonya thanked the woodcutter, grabbed a quick souvenir, and hurried on to meet Tristan. It was starting to get dark.

When Sonya got to Tristan's house, her Dad threw his arms around her.

"I was so worried!" cried Tristan. "You are very late."

As Sonya described her day, she could tell that Tristan didn't believe her. So she grabbed a napkin from her pocket.

"What's that?" asked Tristan.

Sonya unwrapped a doorknob made from cakes. "Pudding!" she said.

Tristan almost fell off his chair.

The End
Gaffer  Jun 2017
Sonya.
Gaffer Jun 2017
What’s a lovely girl like you doing in a dump like this.
I own it.
That course i took is working well.
Was that the diplomatic course.
It was, have you been on it.
Have i asked you any stupid questions.
Not yet, but give it time.
Ask me another question.
What’s your name.
Sonya.
You’re kidding, did your parents not like you.
Did you actually attend that course.
Well i sort of started the online application, but this **** site popped up and i got distracted.
Did anything else pop up.
That’s quite witty, Sonya.
It wasn’t meant to be. I was meaning, did any religious sites pop up.
Well they do say God works in mysterious ways. So i’m thinking he came through as ***** Bertha from Berlin.
Are you a bit rusty chatting up women.
Well i have just come out of a long term relationship.
Sorry to hear that, how long were you together.
A week.
Wish i hadn’t asked now. Was that a full week.
Well a week is a week.
Not necessarily, it might have been Saturday, Sunday.
I suppose so.
So was it.
No, it was Wednesday, Saturday.
So technically it was four days.
If you want to be pedantic about it.
What about your relationship before that.
Eight days.
What’s your longest relationship.
Three weeks.
That must have seemed like a marriage to you.
Actually my wife died tragically.
I’m really sorry, that was insensitive of me.
Only kidding Sonya, she ran off with the window cleaner. The windows have never recovered.
My God, you’re a train wreck.
You want to be on that train, don’t you Sonya.
I do, i actually want to go out with you. Why the hell do i want to go out with you.
Well Sonya, if you don’t go out with me. Then one fine day you’ll marry this boring guy, and i’ll be at the back of your mind.
But in my mind, I’ve already dumped you.
Not necessarily Sonya, this could be a match made in heaven.
It won't be, I’ve already known you five minutes, and already you’re doing my head in.
Well that is a sort of a relationship, is it not.
I suppose so. I don’t even know your name.
It’s Paul.
Paul, did your parents not like you.
Do you see what you did there, Sonya.
*** i’ve become you, how the hell did that happen.
I’m not sure Sonya, maybe we shouldn’t go out together.
No we must, it’s like i need to go out with you for my sanity’s sake.
Okay Sonya, pick you up at eight tomorrow night...
Terry Collett Apr 2015
Sonya lay on the bed in the Parisian hotel room. It was a small room with an adjoining bathroom, a bidet and toilet, with French windows that opened out so one could see and hear the busy streets of Paris below. The windows were open and sounds came into the room with a summery warm air. She lay there in a blue skirt and  white blouse; her feet bare, her legs curled up in a fetal position; she wore nothing underneath, she seldom did; it gave her a sense of daring, of a hidden freedom. Benedict had gone out for cigarettes and a breath of fresh air as he called it. She had a book in her hands. Kierkegaard's Either /Or. Her favourite philosopher. He kept her mind fresh; gave her life a direction. She looked down at another book by her side: Benedict's Dostoevsky novel: Crime and Punishment. It had a page marker about half way through. She could have gone out with him, but she wanted time alone, time to reflect on her life at that moment. She lay her book beside her. She thought of her husband on business in New York and her two sons in boarding school and not due home until the present term ended. Her husband Erik knew she was going to Paris, but he thought she was going alone to research on her proposed book on Zola. Benedict was in Paris on vacation and having met Sonya in a wine bar near her home when Erik was away for the weekend and the sons at school, and after a deep conversation and feeling low, she and Benedict made love in her bed at home, and arranged the trip to Paris between them. Erik was a lousy lover who had become increasingly lousier, and they seldom had *** as he was always busy, and she not in the mood. But Benedict was different; he made *** exciting again, made the whole process something alive and daring, and not just a set out process of mild urges. She lay on her back with her legs out straight reaching for the end of the bed...Benedict bought cigarettes at a small shop in a side street and spoke in English as his French was almost non-existent. The woman who served him understood him well enough and they talked of London where she had stayed for six months few years before. He loved Paris. The whole city seemed alive and full of history and art and literature. No one knew him here; there was almost no chance of him meeting anyone he knew here or who knew Sonya. A sense of freedom invaded him. He and Sonya had had *** that morning and he needed to get out to buy cigarettes and breath in the Parisian air. She was an exciting lover; willing to explore different angles and approaches to ***. The night before had been one long episode of ****** games and experiences and moment of just laying there catching their breath and reading to each other from their own books, then *** again and again. And there was the factor that she wore no underclothes, so that when they went out to a restaurant, they both were aware of this factor, and he got a kind of kick knowing, and she got a thrill knowing that she was free, and walking out on a limb of acceptable behaviour and dress code...Sonya wished that Benedict would come back again soon. She wanted him, wanted to make the most of their time together, their days of freedom to be together, and eat and drink and have *** as often as they wished, and for as long as they wished, without fear her husband would be home at a certain time or that neighbours would see them together and tell Erik. She pulled up her skirt and lay there as if waiting the return of her lover, letting herself feel the freedom of laying so, of not having to worry about her husband walking in on her as he nearly did one late afternoon when she lay on their bed bringing herself to a poor organism...Benedict sat on a seat in a small cafe smoking and sipping from a coffee. He would return to the room after his coffee and smoke. Later they would go out for a meal, and see the city, and feel the history of the place about them. He knew it would come to an end in a few days, and she would be back with her husband and her boring life, and he back to his job, and in his own place sharing with others. Make the most of. Take to the limits. Explore and live and enjoy...Sonya wondered where Benedict was. She missed him being there if only for a short duration. Once their days together were over, and she back with Erik, it would seem like a dream, and her own regular life be one big bore. She ran her hands down her thighs. Sensed her fingers. Soft, smooth. Erik never explored her. He was a five minute and over and done with type. More like a mechanic than a lover. Benedict had taken her to places she had not been before, explored her and brought her to the point of bubbling over and out, leaving her feeling that she was empty and vacant, and yet so alive, and buzzing like a beehive...Benedict made his way back to the hotel room. The coffee had refreshed him; the Parisian air made him feel like a new man, a man of freedom, a man on the edge of a huge abyss, with his very life tingling with new excitement of the big dare. Sonya would be waiting for him, brimming like a *** on a  hot stove. He had released her of her hang ups and held in senses; had unbutton a new area of excitement, and sexuality and sensuality. And she in turn had opened up for him that arena of experience which he had only dreamed about in his tossing and turning nights at home... Sonya heard the door open. Benedict saw her laying there like Venus on a beach of blue and white and bare, a radio playing a Delius piece, filling the air, and he, Benedict, so alive, ready and waiting, and going there.
A COUPLE IN PARIS IN 1973 AND A ****** TRIP.
WS Warner  Mar 2013
Sonya Rose
WS Warner Mar 2013
Prescient, her essence
Casts a demure persuasion,                
Endowed with verve and vision;
Concept to consummation,
The serenely possessed,
Creator, originator,
Allusion to the eternal azure,
Logos of abstraction,
Word and image collision.

Tonal palette of faith infused reason
Beauty and sublimity,
Serve to season
Verse, canvas and film,
Mediating aesthetic, seminal senses blossom,
Lyrical each permutation,
Seeds of vibrant chroma diffusing the mystical.

Visage and hair,  her figure haunted
With perfection - a work of Art
Nurtured and lived invocation,
The canon of taste;
Crystal for the *****
Devotional fragrance ,
Holistic ethos, melodic invention,
Animated, pure -
The embodiment of redemption.

Transcending form, parenthetically  
(Merely) the decorative,  
Allure, artistry and symmetry
Superlative complexity,
Her erudition satiates, supplanting
Winds of constructive banality.

Purveyor of an uncommon savor,
She collaborates in the peculiar
Pursuit and reward,
Encounter  with depth, explored,
Human and divine, prosaic meets sublime
Igniting within an Eros
Passion for truth, being and Telos.

Visionary of grace and peace
Transforming our earthbound dissonance;
Our caprice,
Hope and abundance, the myth of scarcity,
She narrates the Good.
Pen, lens, color and stage
Vulnerable, unrepressed, effusive
Romantic articulation,
The reservoir deep,
Innately primed conduit of Love.

Beyond plebeian, cosmetic, the trite
Woman of substance, pulchritude
And delight.
Effervescent - her smile exquisite,
Eclipsing suffering,
Wordless expression, understood language.
I am transported, my imagination replete,
Sonya Rose -
Art personified; unabridged, complete.

©2008 & 2013 W.S . Warner
Terry Collett May 2014
Sonya liked the Eiffel Tower,
the art galleries,
the Arc de Triomphe.

We met in a café
in a back street of Paris,
coffee, small cream cakes,
she smoking
her French cigarettes.

You have regrets?
She asked.

Most of us do,
I said.

When my father died
I regret things
I didn't say to him,
she said,
always the regrets,
and when Mother go
and leave,
I thought it was
because of me,
I regret not trying
to find her
when I was older,
she added.

I sipped the coffee,
taking in her blonde
pulled-back-in-a-tight-pony-tail hair,
her red lips,
opening and closing with words.

Regrets are useless things,
I said,
you can do nothing with them,
they change nothing,
don't make one
feel better, only worse.

She looked at me,
her steely blue eyes
sharp as blades.

One cannot choose
to regret or not,
it is there, like scar,
one cannot push out,
she said.

I regret having regrets,
I said,
if I counted up all my regrets
and could turn them
into coins I’d be a rich guy.

She inhaled on her cigarette;
her fingers were browning
where she held
the cigarette so often.

I regret my first boyfriend,
she said,
he wanted *** all the time,
like animal, always
the wanting *** *** ***.

I looked at the waitress
passing by the table,
tight black dress,
white apron
tight about her waist,
nice legs.

Yes, that can be a problem
I guess,
I said,
awkward on dates;
when or do you
get down to ***
on the second date
or third or not at all?

She sipped her coffee,
looked at me,
blue eyes to sink in.

Not have ***,
she said,
until both are ready,
until both agree
time is right.

I noted the waitress
pass by again.

Nice behind,
I thought.

Regrets,
Sonya said,
always there,
like sin,
once it bite into soul
hard to get out.

Yes, I guess so,
I said,
I've been in
the confessional more times
than a *****
drops her draws.

She flushed, looked away.
I put a hand
to my lips;
the things(regretted),
I thought,
I say.
MAN AND WOMAN IN PARIS IN 1973.
Terry Collett May 2016
Some dame sang
on the old
radio

a Verdi
aria
Sonya lay

on the bed
reading Kant
I showered

listening
to Verdi
filtering

through to me
through water
gushing down

how Sonya
could read Kant
after ***

I wondered
washing down
young Percy

my pecker
then Sonya
sang along

the Verdi
aria
I hummed some

Sinatra
melody
to contrast

the Verdi
recalling
entering

Sonya's fruit
in the bed
while Mozart's

aria
vibrated
in my head.
MAN AND WOMAN IN PARIS AND ARIAS AND ***
Terry Collett Aug 2014
We had been
to the Impressionist gallery
in Paris
been to the Tower
seen the views
had coffees
and seen street artists
and Sonya was wanting
to see an American film
at a cinema with sub-titles

I’m not keen
I said

why not?

I can see it
once back in the UK
without having to read script
on the screen
at the same time
watch the action
anyway seeing Clint Eastwood
speaking French
is off putting

she pulled a face
and went sat down
on a seat of some café
and I sat next to her

you always have to spoil things
she said
reading the menu
it's in French
she said

we're in France

so how am I to know
what to order?

point at it
and ask what it is

she looked at me
with her icy-blue eyes
she tossed back hair
from her face

I went with you
to the art gallery
she said
to see all those boring Impressionists
but you can't go with me
to see Clint

a waiter came up to us
and she asked him
if we could
have two coffees with cream
he nodded and smiled at her
and went off

he's ****

I didn't notice

had lovely eyes
dark and deep

he's a waiter and French
I said

I can imagine him
beside me in bed
breathing on me
with his breath

oniony and garlicky

she tapped my hand
jealous is what you are
she said

I don't want him
you do
I said

I didn't say I wanted him
I said I could
imagine him in my bed
she muttered

she looked around her
at the other tables

I looked at her profile
the curve of neck
the run of her jawline
her ear visible
through her blonde hair
momentarily
I felt like a vampire
wanting to sink
my teeth
into the soft flesh
of her neck
and **** her sexily

she looked back at me
you owe me
she said
having to go
to that boring art place

ok
I said
what do you want?

I want to see the film
with Clint Eastwood

ok
I said
thinking of the bed
and her
and do what I could
if she would.
A MAN AND WOMAN IN PARIS IN THE 1970S.
Terry Collett Jun 2014
Sonya spoke
of Kierkegaard.
I sat enthralled,
not by the Danish philosopher

or his philosophy,
but by her,
the way she sat
outside the Parisian café,

her long blonde hair,
her blues eyes
like deep fires,
awaking

my ****** desires,
the way she waved
her slim hand.
She was eating

her second croissant.
I liked the way
she licked
her fingers after,

each one
at least twice,
as if they
were small penises

waiting in turn
to be done,
one by one.  
She sipped her coffee,

licked her lips.
I studied
her small ****,
firm and tight,

waiting to be touched
or ******.
She spoke
of Kierkgeaard's books,

of the leap of faith.
I thought of her
secret garden
waiting to be dug

and ******.
I sipped coffee,
held it on my tongue,
around my mouth,

savouring it all,
the taste,
the warmth,
the slight bitterness,

sweetness,
each in turn.
She spoke of
Fear and Trembling,

Either/Or,
The Sickness Unto Death,
and other books
he'd written,

that Kierkegaard guy,
while I sat there,
drinking her all in,
hair,

eyes,
**** and hands
and fingers
licking and *******,

while sat dreaming
of bed and her
and digging
and *******.
A ****** ENCOUNTER IN PARIS IN 1973.
Terry Collett Dec 2016
And the waiter said
Puis-je vous aider?

You looked at Sonya
who said in fine French
two coffees
and croissants please.

Oui madame
the waiter said.

You watched her features
how she sat
her blonde hair
long and loose
from bands or ribbons.

I love the Renoir print
in the cafe
we went into last night
she said.

You listened
but did not reply.

I could see you
in the man
she added.

Which man?
You said.

The young man
sitting at the table
looking at the girl
and her dog
the man with
the fine moustache
she said.

The one with
the boater hat?
You asked.

Yes that's the one
she said.

And you remember thinking
as you looked at the painting
why put a dog on the table
with food and wine and glasses?

The waiter came
with coffees
and croissants and went off.

Sonya sipped her coffee
you nibbled the croissant
she talked about art
and Renoir.

But you were
only half listening
you were recalling
how beautiful she looked
in bed the night before
her hair spread out
on the pillow
as was she spread
on the double springy
ancient bed.
A MAN AND WOMAN IN PARIS IN 1973.
Terry Collett Sep 2017
Sonya sleeps. She sleeps
like a child, mouth slightly
open, thumb on her lower lip.

Benny watches her as he stands
at the window, looking at her
her body, how it lies there in

a fetal fashion. Last night they
made love a couple of times.
Each time like a first time ever.

Sometimes they have made love
and it seemed after as if they never.
He sips the coffee he has made,

looks away from her, looks out
at the Parisian street below. People
walk past going to a job or shopping

or to meet a lover or mind a child.
He looks at the buildings opposite;
they have balconies, French balconies.

3O years ago Nazis were probably
riding these streets, probably looking
for Jews or thinking of home, or ***

or food or drink. Sonya turns over;
her body now stretched out, her neat
***** resting under the covers.

He loves her; they are lovers.
A COUPLE IN PARIS IN 1973.
Terry Collett Jul 2016
Our Paris
still in minds
as Sonya

and I lay
in our bed
in that cheap

hotel room
French music
from the white

radio
playing out
to the room

she lay there
opening up
her flower

sweet scented
that waitress
Sonya said

swayed her ***
just for you
I am sure

I doubt it
just the way
she walked there

(maybe it
was for me
that I hoped)

if you say
Sonya said
some dame sang

some Mozart
on the white
radio

Sonya knew
so she sang
along too

I gardened
her flower
sweet scented

some Mozart
aria
in my ears

as we sexed
her flower
in the cool

late dark hour.
A BOY AND GIRL IN PARIS IN 1973

— The End —