(one of our proof-readers at The Word after dotting her eyes and crossing her tees) Ahhh! The sweet and innocent pleasures of love! Literati! Perhaps you, too, have heard the vague rumor that love hurts? Here at the towers that are A Word with You Press, we have tracked that rumor to its source! …
(one of our proof-readers at The Word after dotting her eyes and crossing her tees)
Ahhh! The sweet and innocent pleasures of love!
Literati! Perhaps you, too, have heard the vague rumor that love hurts? Here at the towers that are A Word with You Press, we have tracked that rumor to its source! Madam Parisianne Modert has written this tense and terse piece that makes me conjure as a defense to my senses the words of Leonard Cohen, who, upon seeing Joan of Arc burn at the stake can only remark “Myself, I long for love and light. But must it come so cruel? And oh, so bright?”
Here is the first of two entries from Parisianne into our contest : A Dozen Roses from a Single Thorn: A Valentine’s Day Love Story.
by Madam Parisianne Modert
The Moon blazed Revelation Red, prophetically announcing her collision intentions of doom upon all Earth’s life forms. Christina Serpentine’s 102nd birthday on Saint Valentine’s Day 2014 came complete with 102 H-bomb candles igniting the Helium-3 just beneath the lunar dark side surface . The Moon’s reversed path was now an unstoppable reunion with Mother Earth. Natasha, KGB spy posing as domestic maid, served the demented heiress apple-arsenic oatmeal which Christina refused. The spy’s gun barrel smoked to the back of Christina’s skull projecting brain and blood spatter and face into the oatmeal on the circular, Salem witch-cursed, ancestral oak table.
Reaper, Lauren Wells, former teenage disco roller queen, pouted her mouth, blew a bubble gum pink globe, captured it back onto her tongue and uncrossed her arms pulling Christina up by the hair.
“Wake up Quaker Oats, let’s boogie-oogie you to hell, bitch.”
“I’m blind Jean Harlot.”
“Don’t fight me, you nuclear dildo, strap-on skag. Toilet flushes should remove that facial blindfold. Damn! Chipped a nail.”
Near the entrance to the rusted, off-its-hinges gates to Hell thanks to Jesus, Lauren turned the kicking, F-bombing, mushroom clouded elder over. Sylvee, Lauren’s blond, blue-eyed, former Universal Studios tour guide slash exec call-girl winked at her sister suggestively. “Watch this, Serpentine viper Sylvee. Christina ain’t no Olivia Newton John.”
“They never are taste of honey.
“What’s her crime, Lauren?”
“I heard stabbing the Earth with the Moon, but it was only a rumor.”
“I’ve missed you Lauren.”
The sister’s french kiss made Christina jealous.
“Come back here Grandma Anti-Gaia. Help me, Lauren.”
Cerberus with three dog heads and brother Orthrus with two perked up seeing Christina clear the fire lit pit turret separating beasts from fallen, Hell arrivals.
“She’s beastie food now, Lauren.”
“Hello, my handsome fellows,” Christina chirped, scratching one chin after another receiving slurps back.
“You’re my witness Lauren,” Sylvee complained, rolling her eyes while pressing her com unit. “Security!”
Charles Satan, the devil, tapped his fingers. Christina’s replay behavior and life file ended. Charles’s black, compressed burning coal eyes became enamored, sparking diamonds. “Get me Mr. Bruce, on screen!”
“Well ruby-slipper me, Mr. Bruce, you devil cake charmer of a boss man.”
“Can you makeover this dog whisperer into my fiery, Jane Russell-like bride, Mr. Bruce?”
“Does Cartier sell diamonds?”
Christina countered Charles’s proposal with demands. “Cerberus and Orthrus live with us, I become Hell’s CEO-Commander and Chief, my WMD wish list will be installed with ownership of Sylvee and Lauren or no nuptials.”
“Eternal honeymoon for four?”
“They’re lesbian only.”
“Unless I seduce them too?”
“Mrs. Christina Satan murdered Hell’s non-cooperative, old-male board with her laser fingers. “Sylvee, Lauren!”
“Get God on the red and white. On your knees, ladies. Let’s give him a peep show.”
“Who the hell?”
“Mrs. Charles Satan, ruling conquoress of creation serving your dozen black roses’ death warrant, you misogynistic thorn-pricking, Trinitarian nothingness. Kisses”