Category: creative writing

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creative writing fashion women writing

London, 1953

FILES-BRITAIN-ROYALS-QUEEN-DEATH-OBIT

The intruder pulls me away from the closet door, believing I’m too frightened to react. But I am a woman with a plan.

One roundhouse kick to his chest fractures a rib. He reels backwards. His abdomen and chest form a ramp and I use it to vault over his head. Twisting in mid-air, I end the discussion, heel to jaw. He’s on a timeout.

His accomplice rushes in to assess the situation. My fists plough through his face. The concussion blinds him temporarily. Ax kick to the knee. He’s on the floor. I stomp on some fingers to disable a hand.

My bodyguards have finally joined us. They look shocked. (They’re also fired). I point to my wrist and say, “You were taking too long.”

I adjust my tiara and make my way to the banquet hall. Two hundred guests, most of them blood relatives, are waiting. My smile says, “Welcome to my coronation reception.” But to be honest, I am a bundle of nerves.

♔

London, 1953 (Coronation Day)

Notes: Feminist Tuesday. Special shoutouts to Mek @ Work in Progress and the Artful Blasphemer. Thank you all very much for your support.

Photo: File photo taken on November 20, 1947 Queen Elizabeth (2nd-R) smiles while her daughter newlywed Princess Elizabeth (C) (to be Britain’s Queen Elizabeth II) waves to the crowd from the balcony of Buckingham Palace in London as the Royal Family celebrated the wedding of Elizabeth and the Duke of Edinburgh (3rd-R).

Categories
art creative writing fiction

Madame Editrix,

Madame Editrix
Metallic paint and ornate rubber stamp on cardboard. Processed with handwritten font overlay.

Story
William Shakespeare’s manuscript for Romeo and Juliet has been scorned by an editor. To redeem himself, he stages the play for the Queen.

Script
Alas, and did my nostrils flare, to see a note; thine own words here:

“What strop is this? I ask, forsooth. This Romeo ballad’s not hooked. Thy fellow bards might pardon this. But “hit” for me, dear Bill, not ’tis.”

Her Majesty will be today, with noble court, to watch my play. What, and she’ll ask, lit fire in me? Please rest assured, I shall blame thee.

+_~

 

Categories
Ancient Past creative writing fiction Her Dark Arts science fiction women

Pandora

Sorry, faux feminist, no Cliff's Notes to help you decipher this one

Pandora stretched herself out on a parapet of black stones, under a pleasant copper sun. She was still dripping wet after bathing in the filtered streams of the lake. She felt safe, as her guardian was scanning the surrounding woods. He was cautious and ready.

Her facial muscles tightened, drawing her lips into a wide grin. She couldn’t feel them, but infrared radiation from the stones had already coaxed her cells back to optimal function. She had outlived the great grandchildren of her childhood playmates. Yet, her stunning features and sensual vitality suggested she was frolicking past her nineteenth summer.

She knew how to get along with the young ones. Honeybees had taught her that for healing, she could use venom and propolis. For nourishment, pollen. And for restful sleep, nectar. She’d spent years practising her craft.

“Yay, cat,” she said now, gathering up some of the stones. “That’ll have us for a bit.”

This was to be their last visit. A new settlement had welcomed her to stay. Pandora planned to age gracefully there. With the stones she would bring the young ones time. Time that was still firmly on her side.

🐝

Notes: Best wishes for healing in November. In this story, I present Pandora as a nomad and the world’s first naturopath, who created the myth to protect her anti-aging secret.

Photo: “Morning Beauty,” Alek Alexeyeva by Sølve Sundsbø (2009) for Vogue via Fashion Gone Rogue.

Categories
art creative writing fashion fiction

The Feast at Samhain

Three pairs of eyes, dusted heavily with shadows of Dior, beamed at the stage where a D-list “vessel” was just sold. The auction house, or rather, suite, was rattled by the combined assault of perfume, statement earrings and martini shakers. Plush carpets steadied the unquiet clacking of new Louboutins.

Up next was a down-on-his-luck A-list actor with perfect teeth, two ex-wives and mortgage payments of $60,000 a month. His nickname was, “Paper Tiger.” The auction proceeds, minus a 9% fee to the organisers, would net him more than he earned from his latest blockbuster film. He was a raw vegan, free of infection, drugs and alcohol. They could have called him, “Prime Meal.” His blood was that refined.

The auctioneer called the bid. “Vessel withholding one litre of highest quality, purest, untainted blood of Hollywood’s acting elite. Bidding starts at nine MILLION dollars.”

The actor’s pulse raced as all paddles clapped the air in unison. It was one past nine of the clock. The vampires would continue bidding for two hours and ten minutes.

🖤

Happy Halloween!

Photo credit: The three vampires are wearing Christian Dior Haute Couture – via Blogazine.

Categories
Ancient Past creative writing fiction

S-s-s-saigon!

Empress Tikki gave her minders the side-eye. They were waving at the scantily clad women dancing in the hall. The Ambassador was seated next to her, outlining his plan to bring animals to the country instead of an embassy. She was only half listening.

It was a terrible idea. Animals aren’t valuable hostages. They don’t bring jobs to the local economy. The Empress fluttered her eyelids. The Ambassador thought she was impressed. She was, in fact, signalling the kitchen.

Someone brought out a bowl of soup garnished with roasted chili peppers. “Fragrant, warming spices,” she said, taking a sip. “Astringent herbs improve the circulation, Excellency.” She handed him the bowl.

The Ambassador had blundered into a dangerous valley and was now trapped in a bog. Moments later, he was in floods of tears but was obliged to keep sipping. Empress Tikki asked one question to end the discussion. “What will you name your residence, Excellency?” He was in death throes but managed to sneeze out a response: “Eh… Eh… It… Eh… S-s-s-saigon!!!”

♛

Saigon | SB

Photo credit:
SHXPIR for Harper’s Bazaar China.

Categories
art creative writing fiction poetry

David et Goliath (Archangel Edit)

Archangel Michael

Cheer me on, Oblivia
as I wind up from the knees
to rend from Earth this nemesis
of everlasting peace

Aiming at the nose bridge
of the Grand Chaos Machine
bracing with the groundswell
fully charged, I launch again

Swing that arm around now
Come on David, let her fly
Holding up your left hand
as a shield against the sky
watch that middle finger
you must use it as a guide
Clean your stones; less friction
Count, release and it is done

Lead, my faithful vanguard
Gather, kindred, go that way
On your trusting footprints
shines the mighty light of day

Come on, children, walk this way…

 

♝

Note: I wrote this poem at the end of March and hid it, thinking I would never need to publish it. Clearly, I was kidding myself. Tammy, and Jeanne, this poem might be all I can do. Photo credit: Archangel Michael defeats the Evil One, St Michaelis Church Tombamasta, Hamburg, Germany; image via Pinterest.

Categories
art creative writing poetry

Buccaneer

Dutch replica of warship
Buccaneer
closeup of port side bow
Ghost Ship
Replica of Dutch built warship
Docked

These photographs were taken on Thursday and Friday (May 19/20), in a small port town, where I attended an art conference. May is the month in which I return home to do laundry and repack my luggage. I hope it’s been a good month for you.

cave, nuanced
Treasure Cave
wooden peg, close up
Pegged
wooden peg, monochrome treatment
Posted
Dutch replica, portside, medium closeup
Ship, Port Side
Categories
art creative writing health

Refined

Rubber stamp on magazine print, with inked verse on recycled paper
[a] Finally, a readable version (gives up)

Collage: Rubber stamp on magazine print; lavender scented ink (in quill) on recycled paper. Photograph: “Pretty Killer” editorial by Ellen von Unwerth, Numéro, Tokyo, April 2016.

A mindful process refines me. When a thing feels auto-, it’s time to reset and learn as I go.

Refined
[b] Proofread (gives up)

The quill and lavender scented ink are with a friend’s mother. She’s recuperating after a long hospital stay. Writing in a start/pause/adjust style should keep her mind and hand muscles engaged. I practiced for several hours to get a feel for the process. She’s now giving it a try.

Thank you for viewing.

Categories
creative writing fiction

Long live the King!

Parliament based on columns, Vienna

This medical morning, for the King, started in a Vojda Space Cab. It surged through a private subterranean concourse, along a 500 km track, nonstop to Brussels. Technically, he was dead, long live the Queen.

Images of the plane wreckage were shared everywhere. The world sat down to look. “Surely, no one survived the impact,” agreed the comments.

Conspiracy theorists weren’t having it. They leaked reports of advanced stem cell research. They explained mitochondrial nanorepair kits. Available in portable spray cans, a generous spritz regenerates cells from the inside out. Over time, nanorobots rebuild nerves, blood vessels and tissue. Surgeons supervise them over WiFi.

365/17 - Banned by Justice

Hours earlier, tributes labeled the monarch, “Guru of a pampered and oblivious sect.” But a news anchor tearfully reminded everyone that Lear was a single father. He’d done a great job, if his youngest daughter capsized the world’s oldest monarchy. When the forty second eulogy was over, the King became an icon of equality and fair play.

The conspiracy theories remained unbelieved until some atheists tweeted prayers. Minutes later, temples, synagogues, churches and mosques around the world were crammed with supporters.

“We forgive you,” pleaded the congregants. “Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!”

 

⚜
Long live the King | SB
…continued from Lear

Photo credits: Parliament based on columns, Vienna and Banned by Justice from Dominik Bartsch via Flickr.

Categories
creative writing fiction

Lear

365/26 - Lotus Elise

It was a grey morning. The King’s jet landed, without pomp, on the wet tarmac. To demonstrate the urgency of the matter at hand, he held court in the hangar.

Flunkies prepared champagne infused strawberries, seared swordfish, and dark chocolate wrapped in silver vark. All nestled peacefully by a hedge of white lilies. The floral scent was powerful enough to obliterate the King’s rage.

Cordelia smeared wasabi on her swordfish with a flash of defiance. Her father had filed a lawsuit (€1.2 trillion) against her to “recover assets essential to the economic prosperity and political stability of the nation.” This morning, he’d asked to see her without their lawyers.

Karl der Große, Rathaus Osnabrück

He spoke, judging her. “The Imperial Household is divided but there you sit, eating sashimi.”

“Dad, his cousin’s going to be Empress. She is the rightful successor.”

“You cannot be in love,” trumpeted the monarch. “In this era, love’s flight risk factor is treble thousand. That boy …”

“That man. That heart surgeon.”

“One rank up from butcher, cosplaying as normal. It is undignified for a future Emperor to touch the flesh of yet dead men.”

“This is incredibly bigoted!”

“Pledge your loyalty to me. Rescind this vile protest and I will abdicate. You will be Queen.”

Succession contracts wafted about her face, close enough so she would catch sight of the lucrative terms. Cordelia did not flinch.

 

⚜

Lear | SB

Photo credits: 365/26  – Lotus Elise and Karl der Große, Rathaus Osnabrück, both by Dominik Bartsch via Flickr.

Categories
art creative writing poetry

Wax Horizon

gouache on wood panel in yellow ochre and brown
Gouache on wood panel (wet/processed photo)

Ad septentrio video
haec ceram caelum clara
supra mare stella Martis

 To the North and I hail
in full this wax horizon
bright across
a Martian sea*

Vignette
(Original; starting point of a colour study)

Meaning: Dust yourself off and try again. Notes: I didn’t realise until Thursday afternoon that the painting resembles the horizon as seen from Victoria Crater, Mars. *As you know, Mars is dry; however, 19th century areographers used “sea”, “lake” and “ocean” while mapping the planet. Thank you so much for viewing.

Categories
creative writing fiction

Goneril

Schloss Belvedere, Wien

Washed in oils of honeysuckle and thyme, the crypt ushered her in with antiseptic strength. She asked after the King’s body. None of the responses congealed in her hearing. Phrases like, “legal property of Vojda Research Laboratories,” “insurers,” “exclusive” and “living will,” went over Goneril’s head as she faded to the floor.

She was shaking. “Hold me. To hell with protocol! I need to be held.” A minder enfolded her in his arms. From there, her eyes rested on the brushed silver canister that cradled her husband’s remains. His ashes muffled her distress.

“You mean,” she said, breaking through somehow, “my father is alive because he got better life insurance coverage?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” the Prime Minister said, “and until he has officially recovered, you are Queen, regnant.”

⚜

Goneril

Photo credit: Schloss Belvedere, Wien/ Belvedere Castle, Vienna, courtesy Dominik Bartsch via Flickr. I was fortunate to find the amazing photography of Dominik Bartsch on Flickr. It is difficult to find images that bring the right ambience to a story. But I found everything I needed in one place.

Notes: This is a teaser for two short stories based on Shakespeare’s King Lear. They are here: Lear and Long Live the King! 

Categories
art creative writing poetry

Poet’s Brew

image

Rusted dials
fond shadows threw
o’er hapless sonnets
in poet’s brew

♞

Poet’s Brew | SB

[The photo is a hapless page from my journal, a red A5 Zequenz 360° roll up. I have tried but it never rolls up for me (story of my life). Keep chipping at that stone. Best wishes for February.]

Categories
art creative writing poetry

Frost

Frost

Winter ices fire
in this midnight garden
where you left
me waiting in the haze
of a bucolic frost

It etches crystals
and invades my brea-
-thing streams
(There’s cramping)
But it seems …

Winter’s glance is bare
She whispers every-
-where through
twisters in this maze
With promises sublime
she sends my sighs
on down the wire
and I hope they’ll
stay away

{(-_-)}
Frost | SB

Photo: My index finger on a frosted car window one very cold morning in January.

Categories
Ancient Past creative writing fiction poetry

Empress Tikki

Shxpir for Harper's Bazaar ChinaThe actuary’s gaunt face presented harshly against the hush of apprehension that gripped the room. The Empress veiled herself with a blank expression. When no one was looking, she released a slow eye roll.

Etiquette dictated that she not show scorn or deference. Today was particularly challenging. On the eve of expansion, the actuary stopped to raise a challenge. He had discovered two spots on a six inch map. The surveyors looked confused. But they quietly agreed that this was a democracy, and let him have his say.

Trailing off the table were yards of hemp scroll. Empress Tikki wanted to wrap it around his neck. “One more passage and then we’re whole, one last signing is the end I’m told…”

Shadowed by nervous ministers, the actuary started clearing his throat. The metallic timbre induced, in the Empress, a maddening primal scream. “Be impermanent in this please, do not drag it out another note…”

♫ Gffmh-gmffh gffmh-gmffmh gffmh-gmffh fhmm
hmmfh fmmgh fhmm hmmfh gffmh-hhhmm ♫

“Pray the deities, restore my soul,” muttered the Empress, “we are held hostage by a mating goat.” She flashed a smile to restore decorum. The actuary had until sunrise to interrogate the two moth stains.

♛
Empress Tikki | SB

Photo credit: SHXPIR for Harper’s Bazaar China, 2014. Musical inspiration:  Habanera from Carmen by Georges Bizet.