Mollie stared at the crimson pool expanding around Rocco’s supine body laying neatly on the white tile floor. Smoke wafted gently from the chrome barrel of the pearl handled revolver she held in her manicured fingers.
Damn him, she thought, that blood is going to be hell to clean up. But the seeping sharp vermillion against the brilliant white of the tile froze her annoyance as she admired the striking clash of colors. Colors could do that to her. She loved colors and once considered a career as a fashion colorist. This, this was strikingly bold, but tasteful--just like Rocco.
Even now, dead on the floor, he looked in great in that cut Armani suit. Great except for the ridiculous look of shocked surprise on his face. That was all wrong. She wanted to adjust his face the way she sometimes adjusted his collar or straighten his tie. Wanted to close his mouth, put his stiff hand down by his side that for some reason was still held in front of him like he was trying to stop traffic. Or block the bullet. Mostly she wanted to adjust the eyes which were as wide as that actor–what was his name? Marty Feldman?
She sighed. Let’s face it, she thought, there were things she would miss about him. And not just his dapper clothes. He was a good looking man, and a woman liked have a good-looking man on her arm. And he liked his women to look good too. That’s why he chose her to be his girl. Well, most of the time. And he gave her extra money to look good too. It took money for a girl to look nice.
She wouldn’t miss his coarseness though. Or the way he talked when he was drunk. Or how he was rude to all of her friends, and had even threatened to beat up Jonni, her gay hair dresser. She winced at the memory. He was really clueless certain things, and she certainly wouldn’t miss that.
On the other hand, he was a man, and a girl needed a man. Even a rough coarse one like Rocco. Needed to feel his warmth close to her and that sense of feeling safe and protected and desired. At least for a little while.
The one thing that she could not accept was that he was a lousy lover. She looked at Rocco anew and suddenly he didn’t look so dapper. She set the revolver down on the counter and opened the broom closet, taking out the mop, the bucket and several heavy-duty reinforced yard waste bags. Typical, she thought, men make the mess and women clean it up.
Prompt: Crimson 6/9/07
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Crimson - Dixie
I roll the word crimson around in my mind, looking for an image, a sensation, a memory. What I get is another word: scarlet. Dramatic red. Scarlet O'Hara. The Scarlet Pimpernel. Will Scarlet. Finally, a personal image arrives---Scarlet the cocker spaniel. There she is: carmel colored, scruffy, her macrame leash dragging on the ground, her big brown eyes wide-open to the world.
I only knew Scarlet as an old dog, but I heard stories about her from the Welfare Department people and also from Candace herself, Scarlet's owner. Young Scarlet was so cute it was ridiculous. When she wagged her tail, her whole body wriggled, her ears fluttered, and her toenails twittered on the sidewalk as she did her doggie dance. Scarlet went everywhere with Candace. Usually dogs are not allowed in the Welfare Office, but when Candace came in, Scarlet was greeted happily by all of us, including the director. We had treats for Scarlet at our desks, and doggie toys. In fact, Scarlet got so much attention, we would sometimes forget about Candace and not realize it until she was heading out the door, perfectly content, it seemed, to avoid explaining herself to some nosey social worker.
Candace was not a street person, though she hung out there a lot. She had an apartment. Once she worked as a clerk at the Welfare Department, before her shit hit the fan. She used to be included in the many-roomates houses that the girls in their 20's shared. But somewhere along the line, Candace started to crumble. She got fat. She withdrew to her separate studio apartment. She stopped working. The lives of girls in their 20's are so busy and chaotic that only a few people noticed the changes, and they didn't know what to do. It was Scarlet who stopped the free fall for Candace.
Scarlet came from the Pets in Need people. She supposedly had a "bad temperament," or so her owners said when they turned her over to the dog pound. Candace's neighbor forced Scarlet on her, "just for a week until we place her." Past the chewing puppy stage, but not yet full grown, Scarlet was a little wild, a little spooked, and in need of some serious grooming. Candace had no idea about what to do with a dog, but when the week was up, Scarlet stayed, and a long period of contentment began for both of them.
As it turned out, Scarlett outlived Candace, but this is not that story.
Jumpstart prompt: Crimson
6/9/07
I only knew Scarlet as an old dog, but I heard stories about her from the Welfare Department people and also from Candace herself, Scarlet's owner. Young Scarlet was so cute it was ridiculous. When she wagged her tail, her whole body wriggled, her ears fluttered, and her toenails twittered on the sidewalk as she did her doggie dance. Scarlet went everywhere with Candace. Usually dogs are not allowed in the Welfare Office, but when Candace came in, Scarlet was greeted happily by all of us, including the director. We had treats for Scarlet at our desks, and doggie toys. In fact, Scarlet got so much attention, we would sometimes forget about Candace and not realize it until she was heading out the door, perfectly content, it seemed, to avoid explaining herself to some nosey social worker.
Candace was not a street person, though she hung out there a lot. She had an apartment. Once she worked as a clerk at the Welfare Department, before her shit hit the fan. She used to be included in the many-roomates houses that the girls in their 20's shared. But somewhere along the line, Candace started to crumble. She got fat. She withdrew to her separate studio apartment. She stopped working. The lives of girls in their 20's are so busy and chaotic that only a few people noticed the changes, and they didn't know what to do. It was Scarlet who stopped the free fall for Candace.
Scarlet came from the Pets in Need people. She supposedly had a "bad temperament," or so her owners said when they turned her over to the dog pound. Candace's neighbor forced Scarlet on her, "just for a week until we place her." Past the chewing puppy stage, but not yet full grown, Scarlet was a little wild, a little spooked, and in need of some serious grooming. Candace had no idea about what to do with a dog, but when the week was up, Scarlet stayed, and a long period of contentment began for both of them.
As it turned out, Scarlett outlived Candace, but this is not that story.
Jumpstart prompt: Crimson
6/9/07
Crimson - Maya
Like rubies. Like garnets. Like blood:
Crimson.
Streaks in the sky at sunset.
Cascades of beads hanging in a doorway.
Similar to magenta and burgundy,
But deeper than the first, brighter than the latter.
A glass of Cabernet on a table at an outdoor cafe in Paris,
backlit, with sunshine streaming through.
One of the colors I would paint my soul, along with purple (both amethyst and lavender), and that particular shade of blue-green deeper than turquoise.
A little dark for paint, though some rooms might be just right
with polished wood and windows looking out over a pine forest.
Perfect for dancing shoes:
Crimson.
Like Dorothy’s ruby slippers,
Paired with a twirling skirt and starlight.
Running in rivulets, fascinating, life leaking out, torn body lying in the street –
Turn-your-head-away crimson.
Or lipstick – yes – that sensual creamy dark color
perfect for full lips just puckering to kiss.
And nail polish, of course, on fingers and toes –
Just before the feet slip into the dancing shoes.
Crimson.
The color for bad women, whorehouses, cartoon villainesses –
The ones who have power and use it for their own gain -
Sleeping Beauty’s stepmother had lips painted crimson.
Good girls wear pink, maybe rose,
But crimson – that’s for women,
Women who know who they are and aren’t afraid
to thrust it into the world.
It’s not subtle,
Crimson is not for the shy, the reticent, the lazy.
It demands attention, loyalty and seriousness.
But it’s not without fun and celebration,
It’s not black, you know.
It’s drama, excitement, life.
Lift your glass –
Praise life –
Praise your life –
Offer a toast to your own soul –
The colors you throw into the world –
The crimson facet of the kaleidoscope.
Prompt: Crimson 6/9/07
Crimson.
Streaks in the sky at sunset.
Cascades of beads hanging in a doorway.
Similar to magenta and burgundy,
But deeper than the first, brighter than the latter.
A glass of Cabernet on a table at an outdoor cafe in Paris,
backlit, with sunshine streaming through.
One of the colors I would paint my soul, along with purple (both amethyst and lavender), and that particular shade of blue-green deeper than turquoise.
A little dark for paint, though some rooms might be just right
with polished wood and windows looking out over a pine forest.
Perfect for dancing shoes:
Crimson.
Like Dorothy’s ruby slippers,
Paired with a twirling skirt and starlight.
Running in rivulets, fascinating, life leaking out, torn body lying in the street –
Turn-your-head-away crimson.
Or lipstick – yes – that sensual creamy dark color
perfect for full lips just puckering to kiss.
And nail polish, of course, on fingers and toes –
Just before the feet slip into the dancing shoes.
Crimson.
The color for bad women, whorehouses, cartoon villainesses –
The ones who have power and use it for their own gain -
Sleeping Beauty’s stepmother had lips painted crimson.
Good girls wear pink, maybe rose,
But crimson – that’s for women,
Women who know who they are and aren’t afraid
to thrust it into the world.
It’s not subtle,
Crimson is not for the shy, the reticent, the lazy.
It demands attention, loyalty and seriousness.
But it’s not without fun and celebration,
It’s not black, you know.
It’s drama, excitement, life.
Lift your glass –
Praise life –
Praise your life –
Offer a toast to your own soul –
The colors you throw into the world –
The crimson facet of the kaleidoscope.
Prompt: Crimson 6/9/07
Friday, June 1, 2007
Movie Star Crush - Greg
He had a crush on Raquel Welch since the late sixties, since seeing a photograph of her in a Foster Grant Sunglasses ad, since a striking photo layout of her in Look Magazine, and since the movie Incredible Voyage where she played a crew member aboard a submarine shrunk to microscopic size and injected into the blood stream of a dying diplomat. Now, 40 years later, he needed to see her in person.
If he’d done this 30 or 20 or even 10 years ago, that is, drive down to LA, buy a map of the stars, and then park outside her modest, but immaculate home in Beverly Hills--to do what? Watch her pick up the newspaper? Ask for her autograph? Drive to the grocery store? He didn’t know what he’d do, knew only that he had to see her, and he knew if he was any younger, he’d be called a stalker. But now, in his 50's with a bad heart, how could be a stalker?
He focused the binoculars on her white lace curtains and thought, If this is not stalking, what is this? And quietly his heart said: this is a journey to Mecca, to the center of the universe, to communion with the divine. . .
For the whole of his life, well, at least since age 13, Raquel Welch represented a thing ultimate. The word beauty, but was too small, it was more. When he looked at her, even after 40 years, there was no greater or more full or more complete feeling. And now, at his age, with his failing heart and bad back, he had to see her before it was too late. It wasn’t sexual obsession. That was blasphemous. And it wasn't something crazy like wanting to marry her or be her friend. He didn’t know what he wanted. Just that he had to see her before he died.
Without warning, the brown chestnut door of her home swung open and she stepped out. He got out of his car and crossed the street, his body being pulled forward. She saw him, but continued toward the newspaper on her front yard, then she stopped and waited for him to approach. She stood erect as a goddess in her white satin robe and thick brown hair pinned up and back.
His heart pounded, as he walked closer. Her beauty was beyond anything he’d imagined. He stopped a few yards away and knelt. The newspaper was by his knee. He picked it up. “I . . .,” he stammered. “I had to see you before. . . my heart . . .”
She stared at him in with hard sultry eyes and he thought he would combust. But then her eyes softened and his heart was filled with warmth. “I know,” she said.
She stepped close to him and he did not move, just stared until the pain of her beauty and presence caused him to look away. “I’m glad you came,” she said, taking the newspaper from his hand. “Thank you for coming.” Then she turned and walked back into her house.
Prompt: Movie Star Crush 4/7/07
If he’d done this 30 or 20 or even 10 years ago, that is, drive down to LA, buy a map of the stars, and then park outside her modest, but immaculate home in Beverly Hills--to do what? Watch her pick up the newspaper? Ask for her autograph? Drive to the grocery store? He didn’t know what he’d do, knew only that he had to see her, and he knew if he was any younger, he’d be called a stalker. But now, in his 50's with a bad heart, how could be a stalker?
He focused the binoculars on her white lace curtains and thought, If this is not stalking, what is this? And quietly his heart said: this is a journey to Mecca, to the center of the universe, to communion with the divine. . .
For the whole of his life, well, at least since age 13, Raquel Welch represented a thing ultimate. The word beauty, but was too small, it was more. When he looked at her, even after 40 years, there was no greater or more full or more complete feeling. And now, at his age, with his failing heart and bad back, he had to see her before it was too late. It wasn’t sexual obsession. That was blasphemous. And it wasn't something crazy like wanting to marry her or be her friend. He didn’t know what he wanted. Just that he had to see her before he died.
Without warning, the brown chestnut door of her home swung open and she stepped out. He got out of his car and crossed the street, his body being pulled forward. She saw him, but continued toward the newspaper on her front yard, then she stopped and waited for him to approach. She stood erect as a goddess in her white satin robe and thick brown hair pinned up and back.
His heart pounded, as he walked closer. Her beauty was beyond anything he’d imagined. He stopped a few yards away and knelt. The newspaper was by his knee. He picked it up. “I . . .,” he stammered. “I had to see you before. . . my heart . . .”
She stared at him in with hard sultry eyes and he thought he would combust. But then her eyes softened and his heart was filled with warmth. “I know,” she said.
She stepped close to him and he did not move, just stared until the pain of her beauty and presence caused him to look away. “I’m glad you came,” she said, taking the newspaper from his hand. “Thank you for coming.” Then she turned and walked back into her house.
Prompt: Movie Star Crush 4/7/07
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