She was naked. And halfway in and halfway out of a marble wall.
I was a dog, another species unable to appreciate her beauty. Except I wasn’t. I was as human as she appeared to be.
Of the three of us, her, me, and the marble wall, only the wall responded to her prescense. It swirled and splashed with pastel illustrations of feathers, fronds, and joyous bongols. These happy illustrations radiated from the rose-like flower blooming between her pale breasts. I wasn’t sure if she caused this or if the wall volunteered. Many of the sinuous petals looked to have smiling faces.
Except for her hands, which she tucked modestly between her legs, a crisp angle defined the intersection of her body and the plane of the wall. Her hands though, more her fingers…fingertips really, extended vaguely into a shadow beyond the surface of the wall’s reality. In that deeper world she might have perched on the cusp of a tall tower like a gargoyle or sat on the prow of a fantastic sailing ship. She wore short brown hair.
The body and face of a maiden with the eyes of a matron.
“I am asking you a question,” the maiden said.
She asked me a question? Or will ask? “Huh?”
“I will be asking you a question. You may choose to answer yes or no,” the matron clarified.
“But in the end I’ll be doing whatever you wish of me?”
“Of course,” answered the heart of a crone.
I’m digging through some of my Internet finds I’ve tagged as ‘inspirational’. Let’s see if I can do the creative thing. I’ve subjected all of us to to much blather this past week.
I’m going to riff off this illustration I found back in July or so I guess. I’ve reduced the picture from original size and provided links per my normal habit. Appending the actual illustration to this post rather than just a link is new for me since maybe the first 50 posts when I decided not to. I worried that doing so distracted me from my writing, I didn’t want to unduly influence a reader’s judgment of my writing, and I worried about infringing on copyrights.
Since my readers and I will work out the first two issues together I should make a note to Bobby Chui of Imaginism Studios, the artist (and any artist I may display or link to), that I’ve shrunk the image as much as I thought reasonable to cover (my interpretation of) fair use and provided credit links in as many places as seem reasonable. If I need to pull or shrink, just shoot me a note. I’ll get a man on it.
Oh, and Streetfighter as a game or reference or whatever means nothing to me. Long time readers will recall when I wrote something inspired by an artist’s pin-up of some other game character and I didn’t realize till later.
“You don’t know what you like; you know when you like it,” Tarô said as he pulled a stretchy-cuffed black leather hoodie from a hanger.
“That Confucius?” Boot asked.
“Don’t be petulant Boot. My Mom says that,” Tarô answered. The 140 kilo seventeen year old shuffled into a jacket the size some would spread across a bed and snapped it up.
“No. Just right.”
“Hood’ll fukup your chonmage.”
“I’m not gonna pull the hood on. And you’re in a shit mood today Boot. Why’d you come with me in first place.”
Boot shrugged his shoulders and said, “Fukif.” Saliva spattered from his left tusk then strung to the floor before he wiped it away with the back of his claw. He scuffed the drool that made it to the floor into the carpet with the sole of his docksiders. Tarô rolled his eyes. Boot shrugged his shoulders again.
“Shit happens,” Draper says to his two short friends.
“God shit Draper!” Boot jumped to the side and cracked his head on the clothing rack. “Quit fukin sneakin up on us. Bad enough I have to stare at your junk all day.” He rubbed the knot forming on his green-skinned skull.
Draper mirrored Boot’s movement across his own head more out of habit than empathy, but still a little of the later. His ‘fro-stripes always itched on real humid days–Houston’s air was a muggy wall out there today. “Two and a half meters and a hundred kilos means all I can do is sneak up.”
She recalled parts of her death. None of those recollections helped her understand why she died. None of them coincided with the story the ER told. And none of them made sense given that she was, in fact, alive.
Dawn Smith knew her name and knew she went by Cresta more often than she went by Dawn.
Obviously I’ll be working forward with this tomorrow. I’d hoped to get further-er today but I’ve didn’t.