Dinner with Diana – Chapter 6/6


I’m linking up with Denise at Girlie On The Edge Blog, where she hosts Six Sentence Stories and everyone is invited to write a story or poem constructed of six sentences based on a cue word given.

This week’s cue word is Mark


 

Editor’s note: This is the final chapter of a 6 part story started by fellow SSS writer Reena Saxena and continued by myself. Today’s chapter may be read as a standalone, or if you would prefer to read the entire story then chapters 1 to 5 are reprinted at the end of this post.

Let’s go! Allons-y, Alonso! It’s time for…

DINNER WITH DIANA

CHAPTER 6

THE WOMAN WHO FELL TO EARTH (by Ford Waight)

Shhhhhh, and there fell a dreadful hush upon the world as every single one of Earth’s satellites ceased to signal – save for an unidentified sole transmission; and in state offices of the world’s presidents and prime ministers there fell the same hush; and the world media stared in shock at its screens usurped; and even Inspector Robert felt the same dreadful hush as he glared at his phone: the sole transmission… it was her! 

Inspector Robert listened as the transmission Shriek-Shriek-Shrieked like a screaming newborn baby clamouring for milk and oxygen, heralding its intent, clutching all potential in tiny balled fists.

TRANSMISSION: “People of the world. I am Dr. Diana. And you will bend to my will.”

And the world harkened with pulsating ears and dreamy eyes, and the continents glazed over, and oceans became still, and the clouds robbed the sun, and the stars above became slaves in the plotting of new constellations, and planets called in their moons to bed, and comets tucked in their tails, and auroras made marks of religious sentiment across their dusty multi-coloured heads, and the Milky Way wept and sent distress signals to the cosmos – who did scramble to assemble all armies and mercenaries to fight the mightiest campaign of its life, as Dr. Diana went on: “In a short moment you will hear a song. And you will begin to feel sleepy. And after, you will do every goddamn thing I tell you.”

Meanwhile, back at the asylum, the three political prisoners known as Mr Sapphire, Mr Opal and Miss Amethyst, were busy at work configuring the sound system freshly built into the warder’s office: a small but grand-looking machine, a 1920s gramophone of all things – its horn burnished and swirled like a magnificent sea shell washed up on a shore, gloriously trumpeting its melody wound forth and blasted from each window of the asylum for the whole world to hear.

And as the song played, Dr. Diana spoke directly to Mr Sapphire on his phone, and she said: “Plan Louis Armstrong is in full swing. Now get me the President of the United States of America on the line.” … and somewhere, in space, a rogue satellite twinkled into life, and a call exchange was made to the soundtrack of the end of the world as everyone once knew it, and it sang, sang, it sang, it sang: I see trees so green, red roses too, I see them bloom for me and you, and I think to myself, what a wonderful world.

***

Fin?

Jacques Poirier journal and magazine illustrations.

Need to find out how this story ever got into its state of being? Then read the previous five chapters below…

As always, TVTA cannot promise answers, but will guarantee questions…

And, in the spirit of collaboration, if anyone else wishes to continue this tale…

Continue reading

50 Shades of Bodice-ripping Halloween Cheese

Here be a Halloween short tale to ever so slightly chill the blood yet warm the cockles of your hearts, me dearies. Late-night fun and frolics in the bedroom? Bodice-ripping yarns and things that go bump in the night? And with generous slices of cheese!

It’s all happening in yet another audacious episode of Six Sentence Stories

And this week’s cue word is…

foundation

 


Madge knew something was terribly wrong that Halloween night when she awoke to the bedroom lights switching on of their own accord, and the Teasmaid kettle (which she and Victor had received as a wedding gift in 1978) started spluttering out a liquid which could only be described as blood, and when her collection of porcelain dolls began spinning their heads and cackling: “Die Mama, die!”, and the flowery patterns of the wallpaper Victor had put up last spring changed into grimacing spiders and slithering snakes … and she half expected the reassuring tones of Victor who was sleeping next to her to say: Go back to sleep, Madge, it’s just a bad dream, but Victor remained asleep, blissfully unaware of the drama playing out in the bedroom.

Perhaps it was all just a horrid dream, Madge supposed – a nightmare brought about no doubt by that generous wedge of Wensleydale cheese she had foolishly indulged in before bedtime, and on Halloween of all nights, and what with her overactive imagination… and so she swiftly fell back to sleep and thought no more of the nightmare.

Moments later she was woken by Victor’s fingers caressing the back of her new black nightie she had purchased in the summer sales, and his heavy and sultry breathing which he reserved for impending amorous moments – usually on anniversaries or Valentine’s Day, but rarely – if ever – on Halloween.

“Mmm, stop that, Victor… it tickles, you saucy devil you,” she purred, and she turned over to meet him, the warm tingles inside her blossoming with the promise of a slow seduction followed by a hot and full-blooded 60% Cotton 40% Polyester nightie-ripping romp… but… oh… my… how quickly Madge’s passion dissolved into horror… for next to her in bed was a man with the face of Victor – yet gaunt and deathly pale, as though he had smothered his features with her foundation; and with crude black lines like scars etched across his sunken cheeks, like he had criss-crossed himself with her eyeliner; and then the vulgar red circles ringed around his eye sockets, like he had smeared himself with her new lipstick (Ripe Red Rosy Apples™, an environmentally friendly brand she had discovered recently on Amazon Prime).

“Victor!” she yelled, “You’ve been possessed by some kind of Voodoo magic, I’m calling an exorcist!” and at which her husband awoke with a start, and the Teasmaid kettle stopped spluttering blood, and the porcelain dolls stopped spinning their heads, and the creepy designs on the wallpaper turned back to pretty flowers, and her husband said: “Victor? Who the Dickens is Victor? I’m Harold for goodness sake. You’d think after forty years of marriage you’d get my name right! Go back to sleep. You’re having a nightmare.”

“Sorry, Harold,” said Madge, “I don’t know what came over me. I knew I shouldn’t have had that slice of Wensleydale before bed on Halloween.”

***


“As writers it is our duty, nay, nay, and thrice nay, our spiritual calling, to explore every literary genre available to us, dammit, even if that means delving into erotic suburban romance.”

 

W.A.E.R. Hobbe-Spaniel,

author of: Rubbish Quotes and Rubbish Invented Genres and Other Such Rubbish Rubbish and Pulling Faces at The Flying Egg which Cried Crocodile Tears in a Thunderstorm in a Japanese Tea Cup in Timbuktu.


Editor’s note: I really wanted to write a rampant stonkingly good bodice-ripping erotic suburban romance sex jamboree, pulsating with pent-up passion and lingerie and blindfolds and riding crops and gliding throbbery notched up to eleven. However, I ended up mostly writing about cheese.

Happy Halloween 🎃🎃😄


Six Sentence Stories: The Girl in the Coat

FAO Schwarz Fall / Winter catalogue logo. 1980. US.

Greetings, vintage mates. I’m linking up with Denise at Girlie On The Edge Blog, where she hosts Six Sentence Stories, and the cue word this time is Coat.


The Girl in the Coat

 

The harsh Winter was almost over, yet no less fierce with the promise of precious Spring about to come: that blissful, two, three weeks at best, tolerable weather event, before the incomprehensible heat of Summer broiled us in our skins.

The girl, she was shivering under blankets plundered from the last town we passed; the forsaken church we had taken shelter in, before the roof collapsed under the weight of snow as filthy and heavy as a Christmas scene postcard sent straight from hell.

The girl, feverish, with me as her guide, the endless walking, sleeping in abandoned trucks and barns, chicken coops long ago ransacked of fowl and eggs, the girl, the girl, the girl and me, hiding in trees from marauders and murderers, and those driven mad by Summer and Winter’s brutal empire… the girl, oh that poor girl, how she shivered.

The girl, in her fever, she called out to me: “Mommy…” and I wept for the girl, and for her mother too – and whichever cruel season had snatched her away.

And I wondered: should I give the girl my coat… if I did, she would surely survive until Spring, yes, but I would freeze, for certain, me… her weathered protector, her compass, her source of advice and well of resourcefulness, her hand to hold in countless blizzards and wind and rain and fog and storms, and heatwaves out to desiccate us.

The girl, I stared at her trembling bag of bones body, me… with no maternal feathers nor stripes to call my own, and she, the girl, the girl, no daughter of mine, just a girl I once found hiding under a bed; the girl who I take my coat off to and wrap around her frame, and fasten each button as her eyes at last brighten, and me, shivering now, the fingers of the wind entering my pores like frost-swords and ice-needles, my eyes glazing over as I give the girl up to the coming of Spring and all I had taught her.

 


#climate #change #care #love

The Girl in the Coat is inspired by The Road by Cormac McCarthy

Huge thanks to Denise for hosting Six Sentence Stories #inspiring

Six Sentence Stories: Sweet tooth / Meat tooth

 

Zapf dolls. Hamleys. 1983. UK. Image enhanced by TVTA.

Greetings, vintage mates. I’m linking up with Denise at Girlie On The Edge Blog, where she hosts Six Sentence Stories, and the cue word this time is Slice.


Sweet tooth / Meat tooth

She lived in a house made from gingerbread and candy, with marshmallow walls and marzipan doors, butterscotch tables and toffee chairs, and two plump beds made from Turkish Delight – for when the children stayed over.

A sweet tooth she had, but always craved something saltier; something hot and tender she could slice into succulent cubes, and watch the pink juices run loose.

She glanced through the window at the arrival of the boy and his sister.

She licked her lips and threw another crooked handful of salt into the cauldron.

She tipped back her head and cackled at the thought of such delicious stew to come, never knowing as she let them in – until it was too late – of the sharpened axes they were hiding behind their backs.


Thank you for eating candy with us 🙂

Six Sentence Stories: The Ape that could Heal

Revell Endangered Animals. 1974. US.

Greetings, vintage mates. Today I’m linking up with Denise at Girlie On The Edge Blog, where she hosts Six Sentence Stories, and the cue word today is Claim.

The Ape That Could Heal

In the mirror you see the ape, black and white, a monochrome beast of healing, standing behind you and claiming your bathroom as his consulting room.

You prey he might help strip away your grief; the daily spooking performed by ghosts who arrive as regular as commuters, subway trains, and parcelled-up self-healing books from Amazon which you always finish with disappointment.

“Wash away your pain,” says the ape, his black-olive eyes primordial, sad, gentle, elemental and kind.

You wash and you scrub and you clean and erase the sticky pain which had set itself deep inside your pores, like shellac filling the grain of mahogany tables you have no desire to ever sit at, and where patina seals over all that mattered back then, when you were young and terrified, shivering below a desk in the biology lab, while all around you lay the bodies of classmates.

Says the ape, “Keep scrubbing, and peel back those layers until you see yourself grinning, just like me…”

And all at once, the ape arches his lips and gives the most exquisite and comical grin you have ever seen, and one that causes you to reciprocate; and only then do you find, in your reflection in the mirror, you are monochrome – black and white, just like he – the ape that claimed your bathroom as a consulting room, and helped heal you with ablutions and grinning teeth.


Thank you for healing with us 🙂