Writing gothic fantasy, today.

"Eureka No.25" ~ Wendy Chuchill (author of How to Change your Life) says the following:

Let yourself off the hook off the hook and find glory in just living instead.

[ James Dean said: Live hard. Die young. Leave a good-looking corpse]. Not that it worked. So do not go there. Leave him be.

Today has a theme: "demoiselle en de 'tresse". The beautiful, young woman. Placed in dire predicament by a "monster/ villain" who then becomes her "Hero". Apparently. some Medieval knight errant said it made up part of his reason for existence. Sounds a bit archaic, still we fall in love every single time. Stop. I am loving myself first. Anti-hero's will be the death of me.

Here's the story. I called it:

Three cigarettes.

She sits alone.

The bar encloses space into a small patchwork of wood and alcohol. Small ants scurrying over her. The dull Chandelier lilting precariously from a low ceiling. Its light casting sickly, sticky shadows onto the stained floors. The insectile hum of conversation, buried beneath the oppressive weight of the music.

Tension and the promise of potential violence hovers in one area of the club. Where revellers seem to slide, scuttle or sway rather than walk. An almost subconscious horde, their movements, altering to the beat. Meat puppets, puffy eyes, and swollen beer bellies. Tiny black eyes tracing the curve of every female. Searching for a mate or a potential rival. It is the year 1999. Who knows what the new decade will bring. Riots are common. Decent people stay inside.

Watching, the lady sits there. Her gin and tonic, warm. Glowing almost ethereal, in the ultraviolet light s reflecting of the mirror behind her. Liquid shadows casting shadows on her still youthful face. Just some experience etched into her features, faint frown lines etched around her eyes.

Her mouth closing on a cigarette, and, as she inhales her chestnut hair falls across her face. She leans forward, ever so slowly. Chair creaking, reverberating up her spine, she hooks her scuffed Dr. Martens around the leg of the table.

Staring into the emptiness, seeing all. Her hand strays, as she seems to retreat into herself. The smoke reddening her eyes, still she does not blink. Every drag, an instinctual urge to distract herself.

Five hours, 27 cigarettes, and the Insects, groping at her tight black top and oversized Gucci slacks.

THE INSECTS:

" Hey. check out that rack" -

(idiots).

"I would not mind …. her"

(Little boys).

"I want to feel that tight little a$$"

(INSECTS).

As a friend approaches with a stranger, nervously, she's suddenly distracted. He swallows the words "Sorry I am late"

"Who is this?" She points at the girl.

"This… is a friend...a friend. ...Listen. We need to talk…"

She exhales in irritation "About what?" "You - wasting my time, again?"

He pauses for a while, as if searching for the right words. She recalls this exact same scenario from before.

"We should stop seeing each other." Her eyes gleam momentarily in pain. Then she shrugs, picks up an almost empty box, and like a wild cat she walks toward the girl on the floor.

"You doin' okay?" she asks, offering the last cigarette to the waif. My friends call me Vee" Or Dean".

"Want to get out of here?" She smiles, as suddenly a song starts playing. The first lyric hits home - "We don't talk anymore…" She closes her eyes as her hand is caught. She smiles

Thinking too herself - ignorance is bliss.

The end. [Condensed version of an article I wrote for my own subculture magazine].

Keep on reading for some romance, some poetry, and ranting at the walls.

And remember, just move forward.

In a society hell bent on destroying each other, the planet, and everything in between. Be kind. Be better than yesterday.