Mag 269

In a post-apocalyptic world Mary knew that her beliefs would cause her trouble but her mission was to proselytise no matter what the consequences. She sang, she preached, she prayed, and always she was aware that she was being watched and that reports were being sent to the authorities.  

Came the day when she was arrested and found guilty, without recourse to common justice, of sedition. Her sentence, banishment to the outer reaches of the universe, did not seem so terrible, for she could continue her work there. It was not like the dreadful punishments suffered by earlier saints, for so she knew she would become. Not for her the excruciating torment of being burned alive, or of being lowered into boiling water. She was to be sent into space, suitably garbed – it would be hard never to breathe sweet fresh air, to feel the sun or breeze upon her skin but she would survive.

A short time into her journey she was informed that her life support system would be removed from her and she would be jettisoned into the outer darkness – an unimaginable end awaited her. She closed her eyes and prayed.

Thanks to Tess for this prompt. Go here to read others' offerings.

Mag 194 Penny Black

Thanks go to Tess Kincaid who hosts this writing meme.

To: Messrs Lea and Gibbs

Sirs,

I am indebted to you for your correspondence of 9- M- 1840 and am honoured to be the recipient of the first adhesive postage stamp in the world (or one thereof)

I beg to suggest that the stamp hereafter referred to as the ‘Penny Black’ should be conserved with care. It is unfortunate that some have already been ‘cancelled’ though I understand the red ink used in the cancellation may be easily removed, allowing them to be re-used, thus permitting some economising.

As an amateur philatelist I would be interested to know if there are any sheets of six or more available.

I remain, Sirs, Your Servant,

Daniel Cooper

There follows his (supposed) correspondence with a young lady.

My Dear,

I am currently engaged in communication with Messrs Lea and Gibbs with a view to acquiring a sheet of ‘Penny Blacks’ which I surmise may be of considerable value in years to come.

Philately is an interesting pursuit and I am convinced it could become lucrative.

I remain, etc, etc

From Wikipedia: The Penny Black is not a rare stamp. The total print run was 286,700 sheets with 68,808,000 stamps and a substantial number of these have survived, largely because envelopes were not normally used: letters in the form of letter sheets were folded and sealed, with the stamp and the address on the

obverse. If the letter was kept, the stamp survived. However, the only known complete sheets of the Penny Black are owned by the British Postal Museum. Though not rare a Penny Black in mint condition might fetch £3 – 4,000.

From Wikipedia: Cooper was a founder and the first president (1869–78) of the Philatelic Society of London, the predecessor of today's Royal Philatelic Society London. His Australian postage stamps, sold to Judge Frederick Philbrick in 1878 for £3000 (the first four-figure price for a collection), became part of Ferrary's celebrated collection. The Sir Daniel Cooper Lectures, sponsored by the Royal Philatelic Society, are in his honour.

He was knighted in 1857, created a baronet in 1863, KCMG in 1880 and GCMG in 1888.

Nature's Wingèd Beauties - Mag 187

Thanks go to Tess Kincaid who organises and hosts this meme J To read more entries please click here.

The Moth and the Lamp by Cesar Santos

Nature’s Wingèd Beauties

I’ve never enjoyed fancy dress parties. The best I can come up with is wrapping myself in a sheet and saying I’m a Roman. I know, inspired . . . Anyway, when the invitation dropped through the door and the theme was Nature’s Wingèd Beauties I knew I had to make a determined effort. There was no possibility of declining the invitation – it was the annual company shindig and my attendance was expected. I knew most of the people who would be there apart from the all-important and influential guest of honour and his glamorous and illustrious wife.

Accordingly, I made an appointment with the director of one of the largest costumiers in the UK, explaining what I required. Having been persuaded into hiring an outfit I would never have considered in a million years, I drove home hoping that the evening of the costume ball would be warm otherwise my wings would be fluttering all night from cold.

My husband reacted with gratifying appreciation when I twirled in front of him, so much that we were almost late. (By the way, he was dressed as a magpie and the long tail caused him some difficulties getting in and out of the cab. In the ballroom he cut a swathe through the company as he turned to greet friends and colleagues.)

I began to wish I’d stuck with my original choice of the blue tit outfit. It would have been warmer and certainly less revealing. Nevertheless, the skimpy moth costume was flattering and I was receiving a lot of attention. My husband’s chest was swelling with pride as he strutted beside me and I must say we made a striking couple – he, so tall and broad, resplendent in black and white with iridescent sheen, me so slight and fine-boned, in soft pastel shades.

A fanfare announced the arrival of the special guest and his consort and the assembled crowd turned as one to the grand entrance. I craned my neck to catch a glimpse. I saw a large man in black and white – a penguin, maybe, I hoped, or a puffin – and next to him a small woman in pastel colours. As they advanced into the room I realised with alarm that they were sporting the same costumes as my husband and me. Swiftly I drew my wings over my shoulders and wrapped them around myself, hoping I might pass as a cocoon. Simultaneously my husband pulled his tail over his arm. He told me later he wanted to give the impression of a crow gathering sticks for its nest. We were not convincing but the VIPs laughed and congratulated us on both our impeccable taste and our quick thinking. What could we do but smile and nod our heads in agreement?

Perhaps we would have been better advised to dress in our usual fancy dress garb. In white sheets from head to toe I could have been a White Satin moth and my husband a Snowy Owl. Were they around in Roman times?

Calculations

Thanks go to Tess Kincaid who organises and hosts this meme J To read more entries please click here. 

Mag 185    Calculations

Boy in Dining Car by Norman Rockwell, 1946

The artist’s ten-year-old son, Peter, was the model for the boy in the painting. It describes a young boy’s first experience of calculating a waiter’s tip.

Peter said, ‘I wish I’d paid more attention when we did percentages.’

The waiter said, ‘Don’t worry, son, I can wait. It’s what I’m paid to do.’

Come on , baby, light my fire

Image by Stanley Kubrick for Look Magazine, 1949

Mag 174

Thanks to Tess for this prompt. Go here to read others’ offerings.

Sara was bored. She’d only agreed to come to the hop to keep her friend company. Now her friend had got off with a boy she’d been keen on for some time and Sara was left kicking her heels. She would have gone home but her friend was relying on her for a lift. A lad strolled over to her, hands in pockets, very casual. She wasn’t instantly impressed but maybe things were looking up.

He said, ‘Come on, baby, light my fire.’

‘Do you mean you’d like a light for your cigarette?’

‘Yeah.’

Flick, flick, flick, flick.

‘You got fuel in that thing?’

‘Of course I have. Oh, look there you are – it’s working.’

‘Turn the flame down, can’t you? You nearly ‘ad me eyebrows there.’

‘Complaints, complaints.’

‘Keep it steady, gel.’

‘I’m doing my best.’

‘Can’t get me fag near the flame.’

‘You could take your hands out of your pockets.’

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah.’

‘It’s alight now.’

‘About time, too. See ya.’

Sara turned away, sighing. He wasn’t a prepossessing lad but he would have helped her pass the time until she was required to drive her friend home. Really, these village hops were a total waste of time.

Years later, fifteen or sixteen maybe, Sara was reminded of this conversation when she heard The Doors sing, ‘Light my fire’, and remembered the uncouth youth with the slovenly manners. Maybe he had become a musician, a songwriter. She’d never seen him after that night, not that she’d wanted to, of course.

The days of village hops were far behind her, thank goodness, and she’d managed to give up smoking, so no-one would ever again ask her for a light.

The Ponytail

The Ponytail

Ponytail by Last Exit

Bank Holiday weekend – cars crawled round the car park searching for a space and then their drivers crawled round the supermarket, queueing to select their purchases, seeking the best bargains and hoping the fine weather would keep. Harassed mothers towed small children, refusing their requests for the sweet and sticky treats so temptingly displayed. Students sauntered along the aisles, filling their baskets with bottles and cans of alcohol and calorie-laden snacks. Lovers wound their arms round each other and ambled around the vast emporium, oblivious to everyone else and preventing them from finding the items they sought.

I was in a hurry. I had not intended going out to shop but my grocery order had been delivered with some of the vital ingredients ‘unavailable.’ Most irritating, particularly as I had guests arriving for dinner in a few hours.

Having found everything, apart from water chestnuts, I looked for the fastest-moving queue. Every check-out desk sported a long tailback of shoppers anxious to unload their trolleys and get home to their barbecues, their drinks parties, their assignations or simply their precious, limited time off. Bank holidays are rare in the UK and each one is anticipated with pleasure.

I joined a queue and began my usual pastime of covertly scrutinising the purchases of my fellow shoppers. Then I began to watch the people in front of me. Each trolley load was swiftly checked out – there was an orchestra of beeps from the check-out desks. Surely the cashiers must hear them in their sleep.

I focussed on the woman in front of me. She had the usual array of tasty treats many people buy to pamper themselves – luxury chocolates, a couple of bottles of good red wine, a glossy magazine and a fine selection of fresh vegetables, fish and meat. I judged she had a family waiting for her to return and cook a delicious meal. I noted her hair – expensively cut and coloured and artfully arranged in a high ponytail, with loose tendrils curling at the sides. Dainty diamond drop earrings threatened to tangle with them and I watched to see if they would catch but they didn’t. At her neck was a silk scarf, one end casually tossed over her shoulder, complementing her crisp blouse. She was so slender! I glanced down at her feet, neatly shod in smart loafers, her slim, pretty ankles just visible beneath the hem of her long, flowing skirt. I looked at my own ensemble and felt shabby in my trainers and gilet. I was envious. It seemed this young woman had all the time and money required to be beautifully presented at all times. Her nails were manicured and polished to perfection and adorned with beautiful rings. A gold charm bracelet caught the light as she packed her items.

With the final things in her bags she turned to pay. With a shock I realised, far from being young, she was a woman of very mature years. Suddenly the hair and clothes seemed wrong, too young, not suited to her age. She caught my eye and smiled as she said, ‘I could have worn purple, you know,’ and I blushed.

All the way home the words of Jenny Joseph’s poem went round and round in my head. ‘When I am an old woman I shall wear purple With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me’ and I resolved to be less judgmental in future.

Thanks to Tess for this prompt. Go here to read other offerings.

Mag 142 Decorum

Thanks to Tess Kincaid who organises and hosts this meme. To read other responses to this prompt please click here.

Charis, Lake Ediza, California, 1937, by Edward Weston

Decorum

Miss Blythe was a genteel woman who spent her spinster days preparing young ladies for their debut in society. She taught them to curtsey, to maintain perfect deportment, to dress for the occasion, to know how to respond to young gentlemen and countless other so important politenesses. Decorum was everything to her and the grand ladies who trusted their daughters to her expert tuition were always delighted with her results.  

Sitting demurely was something she insisted on. ‘Ankles should be crossed at the ankle, hands folded in laps – there should be no fidgeting,’ she instructed. ‘If you are overheated, employ your fan, but be aware of the language of the fan.’

The young ladies smirked at each other, careful not to let Miss Blythe see, for smirking was a lower-class habit and not to be encouraged. At the beginning of each season she was pleased to see her protégées depart for their sparkling lives of privilege and rich marriage and thought of her own mother’s exhortations to her as a young woman.

Miss Blythe’s origins were humble in the extreme. Her mother, a washerwoman, had wished great things for her daughter. ‘I don’t want you falling the same way what I did,’ she said. ‘Just you remember, my girl, keep your ‘and on your ‘a’penny. Save yerself for someone what deserves yer.’

‘Yes, ma,’ said Ethel Blythe and worked hard to discover the correct way of doing things, the way the toffs, as her mother called them, did them.

She did well, Ethel Blythe, and though she may never have made the leap across the classes as her mother had hoped, she lead a comfortable though husbandless life nonetheless. As she exhorted her young ladies to sit decorously, her mother’s words often sprang to her lips to be bitten back before expression.

‘A girl’s legs are her best friends,’ her mother always said, ‘And best friends should never be parted.’

‘Just once,’ she thought, ‘I wonder what it would have been like?’

Mag 141 In this moment

Thanks to Tess Kincaid who organises and hosts this meme. To read different responses to the prompt please click here.

I don’t feel the rain when I’m in your arms,

Just your mouth on mine, spicy and warm -

Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me again.

I see no-one else when we’re together,

Just smiling eyes, beautiful mouth -

Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me again.

I lean into you, you hold me closer,

Just us in this moment, ignore the world -

Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me again.

Mag 139 A night to remember

Thanks to Tess Kincaid who organises and hosts this meme. To read different responses to the prompt please click here.

Midnight Snack, 1984, by Curtis Wilson Cost

I don’t know whether it was a dream or a noise outside that disturbed my sleep but I was instantly alert, my body tense, my eyes straining in the velvet black, my heart pounding in my ears. The little noises that are swallowed up in the daily round were insistent and sinister in the small hours of the night. As I identified each one – the settling of the floor boards, the creaking of the wooden walls, the scuttling of small creatures in the roof, I convinced myself there was nothing to fear and tried to relax.

The shack was a simple construction – no electricity, no plumbing – but I had bought it a few months before as a summer retreat. On a sunny day it was no hardship to fetch water from the well and heat it on the paraffin stove. It was a different matter when rain pelted from a slate sky and a sharp wind cut through my clothes. I should not have cared to spend the colder days of the year in my rustic accommodation but living in it for a short period made me appreciate the modern conveniences of my city apartment.

There was just one thing I could never quite grow accustomed to but it played a minor role in my rural retreat and I planned my days with care to deal with it. I had grown honeysuckle around and over the privy, both to make it more attractive and to mask the smell. I didn’t care to visit it in the dark, especially on a stormy night, but sometimes I had to. That night, having been startled awake, was one such occasion. I lit oil lamps and candles in the house as a beacon in the darkness for my return. It was a warm, moonless night, with bright pinpricks of starlight in the enormity of space. I looked up and shivered, though not from cold. There was a strange atmosphere in the clearing, as if eyes were watching me. In the distance a dog barked and was answered by another. Not for the first time I wished I had a dog but it wasn’t practical in the city and certainly not fair as I worked long hours. Perhaps I should start a dog hire company – bit hard on the dogs, though, having to adapt to different ‘owners’ all the time. The idea entertained me and kept my mind off the conviction that I was not alone.

Returning to the shack I was shocked to see that my beacon had disappeared.  I could understand one or two candles guttering out but the lamp flames were protected by glass shades. How could they have been extinguished?

A silent-winged owl soared over my head making me gasp and clutch my dressing gown around me. I felt a touch on my shoulder and looked round but saw nothing. I hurried along the path and something grabbed at my ankles and tugged at my hair. I shook myself free and stumbled on. I reached the door and lifted the latch. Inside I felt for the emergency candles on the window sill. My hands were trembling and I dropped several matches. When I had lit the candles and lamps and chased away the darkness I looked around. Nothing had changed and yet everything had changed. I sensed a tangible presence and noticed a circle of flower petals on the floor. I had not brought any flowers into the house.

I spent the rest of the night in my rocking chair, every available candle alight. As night faded and dawn approached I needed fresh air and walked to the well. All around I heard faint rustlings and whisperings and caught half-glimpses of creatures slipping into the woods. Around the well were more flower petals.

I sold the property soon after, my sense of peace having been shattered.

Years later I was talking to a friend about that night.

‘What time of year was it?’ he asked.

‘Summer, midsummer,’ I said.

‘And there was a well on your property?’ he said.

‘Yes.’

‘It was the fairies,’ he said.

I laughed.

‘I’m serious,’ he said. ‘Midsummer’s Night is a magical time. I’d say your well was an ancient holy well. You didn’t observe the rituals and the fairies were angry with you.’

          I shook my head.

‘There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy,’ he smiled.

Maybe he was right.

Mag 136 The Dream

Flying Down, 2006, by David Salle

Thanks go to Tess Kincaid who organises and hosts this meme. To read more Magpies please click here.

The Dream

They say that eating cheese before bedtime causes nightmares. I didn’t eat any cheese last night and I wouldn’t say I had a nightmare but I was glad to wake from a confusing night’s disturbed sleep and discover that my life was normal – ordinary, maybe, but normal.

I don’t usually remember my dreams but this one was particularly vivid, full of movement and colour. One moment I was in the bath, the next I was flying in a small passenger plane with no idea where I was going or why.  I stood up and discovered I was naked from the waist down except for wellington boots. That was embarrassing and I tried to explain it to the pilot, who, meanwhile, had turned into a magician; that was quite fitting as I always think there must be some magic trick to keeping heavy objects in the air. He wasn’t listening to me. He was performing a routine to an audience that was heckling and jeering. So disappointed was he that he disappeared, literally faded as I watched, telling me as he went that he had a fine gift for me and it would be delivered very soon.

As the last vestiges of the pilot/magician evaporated a crane swung towards me. Sure enough it was my gift, but what a gift. Super-sized earrings for my ears, they looked more like missiles but then maybe that’s what I needed to catch the attention of the man of my dreams. Sadly, the object of my amour had been transformed into a dying duck – elegant and beautiful to watch in his plummet to earth. And then, finally, as I struggled to make my voice heard, felt I was strangling, tried to call out, a sneering double-eyed cartoon vortex spun towards me. I feared abuse but the creature, so colourful, so insane, passed me by, my naked butt still on display, and plunged into . . . and then I woke up, heart pounding, glad to be  . . . dull.

Mag 135 Dancing

Thanks go to Tess Kincaid who organises and hosts this meme. To read more Magpies please click here.

Venus and the Sailor, 1925, by Salvador Dali

Dancing

‘Shall we dance?’ he said and together they fell into step, dipping, stretching, and gliding across the burnished boards. The music engulfed them as they pirouetted and twirled, she under his arm, then he under hers. They saw nothing else, felt nothing else but the rhythm and the blood pounding in their veins.

He pulled her close, his arms encircling her and her heart beat faster as their bodies touched, his chest against hers, his thighs pressed to hers, one hand on the small of her back, guiding her, just so, just so. She wanted to dance forever, for the moment never to end.

She gazed into his eyes, saw her passion reflected there. Her lips parted, he bent his head to hers and the music swelled as it came to a climax.

The little girl shut the lid of the music box and went to have her tea.

Mag 133 Recall

Thanks go to Tess Kincaid who organises and hosts this meme. To read more Magpies please click here.

Summer Night, 1913, by Albert Bloch

Recall

It was there, just beyond reach. If only he could recall . . . Perhaps if he sat quietly for a while as the woman had suggested it might come back to him but that was something he couldn’t do. He paced. He looked about him. There were others in the house but he didn’t know them though some looked familiar. Why was he here? It wasn’t his home. He wanted to go home. Someone could take him - he had money. Then he could live on his own again. He didn’t like it here. He didn’t like the people. They stared at him and made him angry. He couldn’t understand what they were saying and they wouldn’t go away. He threw a cup at the woman nearest him. What was in the cup?

At meal-times he sat among strangers and ate food he hadn’t ordered though the woman told him he had. She had lied to him. Afterwards he paced again. Where were his parents? His sister had come to visit. She was older than him – fifty-six. He asked her about his parents. She told him they were dead. Why hadn’t anyone told him? He told her his things had been stolen. She found them in a drawer and showed them to him but they weren’t his. She was lying. Everyone was lying. No-one understood, no-one believed him. The fog in his head grew thicker and the words wouldn’t come.

His sister went to talk to the woman. He listened. The woman said, ‘Your father’s not too bad today, a little aggressive, but manageable.’

What did she mean? Her words were a blur. She was lying again.

‘He was trying to tell me about his boyhood home but he couldn’t remember the name. He got very agitated – his vocabulary is so limited now but he’s in remarkably good health for a man of his age. Ninety-eight next week, isn’t he?’

The man wrung his hands. He hated it here. He would escape and go home to . . . the name was there, just beyond reach.

His sister came back. What was she called?

 ‘Goodbye, Dad. See you in a few days.’

Mag 132 Big Room

Thanks go to Tess Kincaid who organises and hosts this meme. To read more Magpies please click here.

Big Room , 1948, byAndrew Wyeth

Big Room

I had heard so much about Big Room from my friends but had never visited it, believing, I suppose, that I should only enter it by invitation. After many years of no invitation being issued I gathered my courage and decided to go into it anyway. ‘What’s the worst that could happen?’ I asked myself and my friends encouraged me. ‘It’s amazing,’ they said. ‘You won’t be able to believe your eyes.’

I said, ‘Why don’t you come with me?’ but they all demurred, declaring there were other, more pressing claims on their time. ‘Besides,’ they said, ‘We’ve already been there. It wouldn’t be so impressive a second time.’

I thought that was a specious argument but said no more. Having decided I would go I wanted to proceed immediately on my adventure, for that is what it felt like.

It was a cold day when I slipped into the room, but light reflected off the snow sufficient to allow me to see clearly. I was overwhelmed by the vastness of the room. I had never seen such immensity. Everything was larger than life. As I moved forward an enormous head in the window startled me but I soon realised it was no threat to me though I wondered what purpose it served. I tiptoed across the polished floorboards towards the fireplace. There was no fire burning and that surprised me on such a chilly morning. I knew then that the occupant of the room was absent and I relaxed, knowing I would not be disturbed.  Instead of a bright blaze two dogs sat in the grate – I had heard of fire dogs but had always supposed them to be devices to hold logs. These dogs were facsimiles of real creatures, quite attractive in their way, but of no practical use and certainly no danger to me, for all their great size.  I peered up – there were likenesses of people, and two candlesticks, on a shelf above the fireplace. A large clock ticked heavily, its pendulum swinging mesmerically. I gazed at it, all thoughts fleeing my mind. Presently, chimes rang forth, causing me to gasp and stumble and bringing me back to my senses.

There was little else in the room but a circular table on a tall stem. On it I could just make out two rosy shapes. They smelt like apples and as my stomach rumbled I recognised how hungry I was. I should have planned my journey and brought provisions with me.  I was sure the owner wouldn’t begrudge me a little nourishment. He, or she, would have taken the food with them, surely, if they had needed it. The problem was that I couldn’t reach the fruits and even if I had been able to I would never have been capable of lifting them. 

So, exhausted, I returned home to share my experiences with my friends. They brought me refreshments and sympathised with me over the apples. ’We felt the same,’ they said. ‘That’s the trouble with only being two inches tall; it’s very limiting.’ 

Mag 108 Refuge

   

Image copyright Uzengia Aleksander Nedic

Refuge

It was dry in here, deep in the heart of the brambles, a safe place to hide.  He couldn’t tell how long he’d been here but the noise of his pursuers had long since died away. 

He had no idea why he had been targeted.  He was simply going about his business, not bothering anyone, when they’d spotted him and decided to give chase.  There were so many of them and they made a deafening noise.  He’d had to keep a cool head and engage all his cunning to give them the slip.  Being smaller and slighter had enabled him to squeeze through openings they couldn’t navigate.  He reckoned that had gained him valuable seconds and enabled him to outrun them.  He was lucky to have remembered this bolt hole.  He sighed and dozed off.

He heard the girl before he saw her and stared bleary-eyed through the brush.  Had she been sent to find him?  He studied her.  She looked harmless enough but experience had taught him it was impossible to judge people by appearances.  She hadn’t spotted him yet and if he remained stock still she might never notice him.  He just wanted to be left alone.  Couldn’t anyone understand that? 

The girl moved forward, searching the ground, then cried out as thorns grabbed her legs.  He shrank back into the shadows as she struggled to free herself.  Disentangled at last, the scratches on her legs bleeding, she turned and tramped away.  He listened as her footsteps faded and all was silent again, save for the distant calls of birds and tiny insects tracing their busy paths across dead leaves.  A beetle scurried across the packed earth.  He watched it lazily then tucked his nose under the white tip of his tail and slept once more.

Click here to read more responses to Tess Kincaid's prompt. Thank you, Tess J

Mag 107 Fancy a drink?

  

Image copyright Sarolta Ban

 Fancy a drink?

All I did was ask her if she fancied coming out for a drink with me. The way she looked at me, eyes blazing, you’d have thought I’d asked her to sleep with me. I’m not saying the thought hadn’t crossed my mind – sleeping with her, I mean. She was a bit of all right, if you know what I mean, legs up to here and a beautiful figure, everything in the right place and just the right size – you catch my drift? Yeah, quite a looker but classy with it, you know, not your usual bit of crumpet. Real peachy she was but posh – cut-glass accent, lots of bling, nice clothes, skyscraper heels, the lot. Yeah, she was the real thing.

I’m not so bad myself. I mean, you wouldn’t throw me out of bed - that’s what my bird says and she should know. Been round the block a few times she has, but nice with it.

Anyway, this posh bint, she thought she was too good for the likes of me. ‘I bet she’s got some rich old buffer twisted round her little finger,’ I thought. I know the type, you see, bit like an upmarket car. Get a good chassis, tart it up and wait for an old bloke with more money than sense to come along.

I don’t take offence, me. There’s plenty more like her and more generous with it. I was curious, though. Women don’t usually knock me back quite as quickly as she did so I thought her bloke must be something really special. You could tell she was waiting for someone – she kept looking at her watch and turning this way and that to see if he was coming. She looked excited, sort of like she was in love. I thought that was a bit unlikely – women like her don’t have hearts, just safety vaults - so I hung around. She didn’t see me. Women like that, once they’ve rejected someone, they don’t see them any more.

Suddenly her face lit up in a smile - fantastic teeth, all white and even, and she looked happy, radiant even. I looked to see what her bloke was like – maybe I could pick up some pointers (modesty forbids I should say I don’t need any help in that field.)

Well! That’s all I can say. Hurrying towards her was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. Sisters? Best friends? I don’t think so. I sighed. ‘What a waste,’ I thought. ‘Still, whatever butters your bread. No wonder she looked down her nose at me. I’m as much use to her as a bird cage is to a butterfly.’

I went home to my girl-friend. She’ll never turn me down.

To read more Mags click here. Thanks to Tess for the prompt.

Mag 106 I was Andy's assistant

Warhol at the Grocery Store

photo credit Bob Adelman 1965

I was Andy’s assistant in the early 1960s when he was in his thirties, just around the time his name became the buzz on everyone’s lips. Yeah, I was his gofer. He was always sending me out on errands – that’s when I wasn’t washing brushes or mixing paint or preparing canvases.  Mostly, though, I ran his errands.

He liked soup, Andy did. His favourite was tomato and he’d eat that while he watched television. One day he asked me – told me – to go out and buy one of each of the different flavours of Campbell’s soups. I said, ‘Gonna try a different soup tonight, Andy?’ but he just told me to get a move on. So I went down to the local convenience store and picked out the soup cans. I’m telling you, thirty-two cans of soup are heavy, man, and not in a good way.

You could have knocked me sideways when I saw what he did with those cans. Who would ever have thought it? We parted company after that. I liked working for him but it was time to move on.

Yeah, it was fun working for Andy, a lot of laughs. I’d have done anything for him – well, almost anything.  I was never one of his pissers, though. I drew the line at that.

 Tess hosts The Mag here. Thank you Tess.

Magpie #104 Maggots

Photo Manipulations by Christophe Gilbert

copyright Christophe Gilbert

Look at this in negative and see squirming, desperate maggots seeking to consume the fresh young flesh of a dead woman but yet she looks enraptured so this may not be so.  Switch perspective and see spermatozoa, swimming to the ova, each hoping, if they had such ability to feel and aspire, to fertilise and procreate. Look again, are these not the wrinkles of the brain surrounding the pearl that is the hypothalamus, the reason for our waking and walking and thinking and feeling?

When the image is enlarged some force beyond renders it dark, forbidding, the hair like Medusa’s locks, so many snakes to poison man. In death she brought forth Pegasus, the winged horse of poetic inspiration and Chrysaor, the giant with a golden sword, so is this image one of hope for mankind?

Disturbing, so white, so black, a puzzle obscene and beautiful, a perfect tessellation of form and shape.

To read more interpretations please click here.

Free me!

A grave at the Novodevichy Cemetery, Moscow

My first irreverent thought was ‘We gotta get out of this place, if it’s the last thing we ever do’ which I’m considering having played at my funeral but then it was followed almost immediately by the sense of beseeching implicit in this monument.

Free me!

Free me, I beseech you,

Free me from this world of woe,

Dead roses and cold rubies

Are not enough to hold me.

See my hands outstretched,

Fingers splayed and reaching

Out from the grave below -

Release me from this clay.

My spirit fled my body

Yet you strive to keep me here,

Your tears and words restrain me,

Please let me go.

Remember the person I was

And laugh at the memories we made –

Don’t enclose me in your sadness,

Please let me go.

You can read more Mags here, thanks to Tess Kincaid who organises this meme.