duct-tape-rose

"Sit up straighter. Head back. Open your eyes! For the love of God, you aren't Asian!" All thoughts of throwing an impromptu peace sign dashed, the elegant woman breathed a sigh of relief and slight satisfaction as the boy in front of her corrected his horrendous posture at last. In the folksy park setting, the impressive Hilde Van Kamp appeared incredibly out of place. And she brought with her, as usual, the constant stream of rapid-fire shutter clicks and strange fabrics she insisted on draping over her unwilling model. Glancing around her bucolic, mundane setting, she longed for the gleaming skyscrapers of New York and her private studio.

Each and every morning, the princess brushed her hair 230 times with her boar's hair brush, 175 times with her silver comb, and formed it into a neat ginger plait which she twirled up into the tiniest bun manageable. Had she been living in modern times, she would have then exited her very stark apartment to open a large building full of dusty books and spend her day hushing small children. But the princess did not live in the modern world, so instead she stood and crossed her bedchamber, throwing open her armoire. Hundreds of dresses stared back at her, silk rustling in anticipation of who would be chosen. After a few moments of careful delib

The expensive smell of new silk diffused into the normal mold and musk scent of the old castle as the ladies swept regally past me. I stood in a lowly alcove, hidden some distance away, merely watching. Peals of gay laughter floated down the corridor and into my drafty perch. I could have joined them, I suppose, but I preferred to remain at a distance, where I could be fairly punished for what I had done. The fire crackled and danced in its hearth, taunting me with the inviting glow of death. I longed to reach out and touch it, to feel its soft caress on the calloused pallor of my extremities. My hand seemed to move of its own accord then, dr

How simple life can be, sunk firmly in the earth. The tickle of butterfly wings on a brightly colored bud, the shining orb in the sky feeds each hungry one. The strange blossoms came not long ago, in the beginning of bloom time. The young ones were frightened. Some were even trodden on by the large, clumsy roots of the careless intruder. We are no longer safe in bed; the weeds even hide in the cracks of… concreet, I heard it called.  They glide along on two fat stumps and speak in a complex, angry tongue. We can only sit and shiver, lusting for the sweet sensation of dew to grace our forever wilting petals. When will it come? The placid