Words 16/06/2025 Incandescent Proposterous Yellow Deadly Flatulence Seaweed Drums Island

 Paula's story

The drums of the U.S. Military Band beat a brisk cadence as the parade passed the flag-bedecked grandstand in the American capital of Washington, D.C.

In the center of the grandstand, an obese man in a too-tight suit and a red made-in-China hat watched the spectacle, made to order in his honor, as he scarfed down a hamburger, then a hot dog, and, then, incongruously, a seaweed-wrapped rice & bean burrito. How preposterous, as he was fighting with everything he had to deny Asians and Mexicans, among others, access to the United States. And still, he was hungry. Hungry for power.  Hungry for world domination. Hungry for love, which he couldn’t articulate. After all, his father had never loved him, had belittled him at every turn, had only demanded complete fealty. And so, this man-made belittling monster demanded the same fealty of his women, his wives, his children, his subordinates.

Yet on this day, on his 79th birthday, during this grand parade — it also convienently coincided with the 250th anniversary of the U.S. Army—  he reveled in the moment. He was a god! Just like his great, big, beautiful Russian pal Putin! A parade in his honor, with all the soldiers and all the tanks and all the big, bright, beautiful things! He was so excited. As he applauded the spectacle, with his bright yellow hair, his weird orange skin, and his garish red hat, he looked like the hot portion of the color wheel. 

As the parade progressed, with the tanks, and the soldiers, and the bands, and all the military might he could afford to muster, he digested that immigrant-made burrito. Uh-oh. Suddenly, he leaned a bit to the right, and let loose a blast of deadly flatulence. The Yugoslavian woman next to him, an immigrant clothed immpecibly in a beige suit, flinched a bit, incandescent with embarrassment, yet continued to smile her tight, stiff little smile and wave her tight, stiff little wave. She had become used to such things. She had made peace with being the wife of a tyrant, a multimillionaire, a cheater, and an animal with no manners, no class. After all, she was the same, wasn’t she? She wanted only to deliver an heir. And where was that saintly heir? Oh, yes, there’s Barron, seated behind his father. Feeling the aftershocks of that epic immigrant-fueled fart, he had fainted dead away. 

It was easy to see this epic off-gassing as some kind of disgusting joke, laughable, worthy of mocking. And it was, all of those things. But like the entirety of this horrible little man’s twisted regime, it was also deadly serious. He did stupid, inane things, and people got hurt. And he continued not to care.

 The world could feel Barron’s disgust. We experience the stench every day. We reel. We are all Barron now. 

Jackie's story 

The drums beat slowly and regularly pounding deep sorrow into the hearts of those surrounding the coffin .    Yellow roses cast an incandescent glow as they were gently placed to send the corpse into  its final home.     The air was tainted by a natural flatulence,  a deadly stench from the seaweed that lined the dunes.   The beach covered in white foam,  angel shapes ready to catch the soul of the deceased and send it into another sphere.

I had arrived late – missing a turning, getting lost as usual with google maps taking a confusing back road but finally arriving at the chapel on the hill –  the crowd spilled out into the driveway      I was surprised to see so many people, the chapel was full – slipping in a side door I was overwhelmed by the packed seats and looking around at the mourning  crowd dressed in suits and dark clothes surprised I didn’t recognize anyone   She must have had a lot of friends.

I was there for my young neighbor Julie.  A tragic accident due to a propostperous deadly overdose – she who had loved the surf and sun out morning till night in the wild, so often I would see her running into the water and throwing herself to the wind her long blonde hair tangled and salt kissed,    She had always turned to wave with a big smile-  on her face and returning wet and salty for a morning coffee at my kitchen table.  

  The Minister spoke, relating a life story – of banking and success and large families and grand children and great grandchildren – finishing off with  “we’ll all miss Mrs Smith”.     I realized with a jolt that I was at the wrong funeral –

I waited until the end and slipped out to the adjoining island giving onto the  beach  – there was a white awning with flowers strewn and friends who I recognized in brightly coloured clothes singing my neighbours favorite songs  I was finally able to say goodbye  - 

What a wonderful service I commented  and everyone agreed heartily.

 

Patrice's story

The summer I graduated from high school, a terrible year for me, a group of my friends decided to go to a cabin that belonged to someone’s family - I don’t remember which friend’s family it belonged to, for an after-graduation party.  In a pitch at sophistication, lobsters were bought, wine smuggled, promises made to be careful, and off we went.  None of us had cars then - maybe not even driving licenses - so we made our way to upstate NY via train with backpacks and coolers, doing our best to mask our youthful excitement with clever banter - we were a clever bunch - and feigned nonchalance at this grown-up like outing.

We trooped like scouts to the cabin.  It was on a hill that sloped down into a grand lake.  Pine trees, Sugar Maple, and my mother’s favorite, Birch, peppered the lot.  The preposterously named cabin was huge - three bedrooms and a living room with an enormous fireplace, a kitchen attached to a screened porch, and a pantry.  The girls claimed the room with an attached bathroom citing flatulent boys with their smells and fart jokes and the boys took the bedroom across the hall at the top of the stairs saying they would protect us should the need arise.   The third bedroom, painted a deadly shade of yellow and smelling of mothballs, was left to its own devices, the door firmly closed.

I was lonely among this group of friends.  The same age, the shared passion for theatre and performance, the longing to find a way in the world bound us but history, both personal and world history, made us different.  

 

I had never eaten lobster and was unaware that they were thrown into a pot of boiling water to cook.  I thought Ricky and Dennis were teasing me until the others chimed in and said they were telling the truth.  But before they could be cooked, they would race.  I was horrified.  A canning kettle boiled on the stove, steam rising, waiting like a giant lobster hell.  The bands were removed from the claws, and a starting line was decided upon.  Lobsters were set down, shouting began, and the prehistoric creatures scrabbled across the green vinyl, unaware of their fate.  I was appalled.  These friends who protested war, fought for human rights, went on strike to protest the unfair treatment of animals, were perfectly willing to first play, then boil, then devour the lobsters.  

I peeled potatoes and shucked corn on the front porch.  As far away as I could get from the rest without actually leaving.  I sweated my future and tried to soothe myself with the evening sounds of crickets, night birds, and the whisper of the upper branches of the pines.  I refused to watch the lobsters being slid into the pot, but set the table and sat down with everyone else.  The horror was not just the boiling of the lobsters.  It was in the eating, too.  The cracking of the shells, the sucking, the butter coated fingers,  the boundless enjoyment struck me as excessive off putting.

The center of the table was piled high with lobster shells, the smell beginning to nauseate me.  We sat telling terrible jokes, exchanging horror stories of encounters with teachers, auditions that went sideways, lost leotards, and scary subway encounters.  

Someone said we should wash off in the lake.  We could swim in our underwear, bathing suits if we had them or naked - with a lift and wiggle of adolescent eyebrows.  My relief at getting away from the crustaceous pile got me up and out of the kitchen and down the stairs to the lake faster than anyone.  I peeled off my dress and walked into the lake, cementing my reputation as fearless.  The others followed with whoops and yelps.  It was lovely in the water, the night sky studded with stars nearly invisible in the city.  We began to quiet, to talk softly.  I was floating on my back when Ricky said, “Move your arms back and forth”.  When I did, a lovely sparkle dotted my skin then faded.  As I looked over the lake, I could see the others dressed in the luminous algae creating incandescent sculptures against the backdrop of the night sky.  

We floated until we were shivering from the cold.  Finally making our way back to the cabin to wrap ourselves in towels and blankets, sipping mugs of tea and cocoa, to talk of the future.

 

Geraldine's story

September had arrived. George and Jennifer had chosen a small island on the North West coast of Japan for their honeymoon.

After a 10 hour trip on the plane, they finally landed in Sapporo and spent the night in the local Hilton Hôtel where they didn’t even appreciate the comfort, as they fell asleep within minutes and stayed in Morpheus’ arms for another solid 10 hours.

A luxurious continental breakfast was brought to their room with a choice of coffee or as many local teas they could even think of, served in the most cute china bowls you could imagine. 

While George was under the shower, Jennifer seized the opportunity to release some winds due to the food they had been given on the plane, causing severe flatulence.  It was OK : she could hear the water dashing from the shower, so she was relieved as she knew George wouldn’t  perceive the loud preposterous drum concert that was going on in her bowells and filling the  room with some kind of disorganized sounds… maybe Japanese variations ?  After all, it was their honeymoon : and there’s an appropriate way to behave in these ciscumstances.

When George came back to the room in his handsome yellow silk  dressing gown, Jennifer was holding her soothed and now supple tummy in her hands, giving it a little massage.

-       Are you all right, asked George ? Do you have a stomach ache ? 

-       Oh no, I’m fine thank you.  This is just my morning routine getting everything back into place after a long night.

-       Oh ! Good !  As we have a long bus journey yet to get to the ferry.

The bus to Wakanai was due at 10 o’clock. Jennifer had plenty of time to take her shower, get dressed and put on the right shoes for walking and traveling.

They were lucky to get in the front seats and where amazed at the fact that the people getting on it after them would bow in a very polite manner.  Japan was certainly not England : people were polite and well behaved ! The landscape was very green, rugged, with extinct volcanos scattered here and there.  The sky was deep blue, not a cloud to be seen.  The perfect weather for a honeymoon.

There wasn’t far to walk from the bus to the ferry, which they managed quite well.  Sitting on the deck of the ferry, they could see the Rishiri Island and it’s big extinct volcano sitting in the middle of it. How lucky to live on an island with only 5.000 inhabitants and wonderfull scenery all around.  The sea was turquoise, and looking down to it, they could observe the incandescent seewead at a small depth.  Waouh ! never seen anything so astounding, accompanied by this very quiet and calm population : the travelers weren’t talking, or very sotto voce. 

The ferry reached the haven, everybody stepped off and got on buses or their bicycles and George and Jennifer looked at each other, smiling, happy and Jennifer let out :

«  We’ve done it George, I wasn’t quite sure we would make it : afterall we are both over 90 years old now. And deadly.  Love you ! »

 

Annemarie's story

 

 

Out of Sorts. (Dedicated to Patrice, who was 'out of sorts' one day and wants a pet.)

 

My friend said she was sad and out of sorts today;

She'd stay at home and patch a broken toupée.

 I asked her where she'd lost them and she replied:

"Since full moon my 'sorts' have gone on holiday."

 I searched a dozen  shops for every sort of 'sorts'

But no one knew, no one cared and no new imports.

Think of something new to get her back on side.

I wracked my brains and scratched my head

To  cheer her up and rouse her from her bed.

A pet...a cat, a dog, why not a...hippopotamus!

Now you may think that's quite preposterous

But circus-trained, this happy hippo was not deadly

A placid, plodding nature made her very friendly.

With yellow-painted nails and tiny swishing tail

She'd paddle in the pond, polka-dot bikinied.

A daily diet of luscious grass was everything she needed...

...and every other week - fresh delicious seaweed...

...and cakes and ale, cabbages and errant crumbs.

Then came the rumbling sounds like very distant drums,

Which troubled her with never-ending flatulence.

 

For my friend, I spent my time and my inheritance -

To rouse her sorts, to raise her spirits, her equilibrium.

And was she gushing thanks from her Elysium?

 No! ...Incandescent  with rage she loudly roared

That I had landed her with such a smelly, farting ward.

Her grass and garden gone, the sofa broken,

Of her 'sorts' she wished she'd never spoken.

 

 

 

 

 

Someone went to bed - someone woke up

 

 

Mary Morgan's poem

Ghost Brush

Katsushika Ōi, Houkasi

I curl up in my warm comforter

and close my eyes.

But I feel a presence.

I stare at the strange painting

that came in the mail this morning.

Who could have sent it?

There’s an ancient inscription on the back:

Courtesans Showing Themselves to the Strollers through a Grille —

an extremely rare work

by Katsushika Ōi — Ghost Brush.

Ghost Brush,

were you the one peering through the grille,

sketching the courtesans

as they shimmered in flickering lamplight?

Dark shadows

played across their powdered faces.

You risked being seen.

You risked death.

For years you were invisible —

a daughter,

an assistant,

a ghost behind your father’s name.

The customers look in.

The courtesans look back.

Through the cage-like grille —

seeing,

being seen

in the marketplace of desire.

I look deeper into the painting.

Suddenly, I feel the red-light lamps

burning hot against my skin.

I see the unmoving faces —

painted, pale,

trapped behind the bars.

Their kimonos bloom

with butterflies and swallows,

freedom on silk, that can never fly.

People jostle past me,

hungry eyes pressed to the bars.

I stumble in the shadows.

I clutch the grille

and look up —

She is staring back.

A white-painted face.

Blank.

Hopeless.

And yet —

a flicker of wonder

at seeing me.

The bright moonlight wakes me.

But still —

the courtesans are watching,

still showing themselves

to the strollers,

still waiting

behind the grille,

hundreds of years later

 

Annemarie's story

     Someone went to bed....someone woke up

I pulled back the crisp white sheet and climbed into bed. Freshly  showered, face scrubbed shiny I lay back hoping I could sleep deeply this time.  When I go to bed in the evening I'm sometimes so tired I think, or I hope, that this time I will sleep dreamlessly... or at least have peaceful, entertaining dreams as when I was young. But after a while I'm having disturbing thoughts; many nights  I'm up at two in the morning drinking a tisane that's like mown grass. Then it gets worse; my throat is dry so I make a peanut butter sandwich and regret it as soon as I've finished it. Of course I can put 'doing the ironing at 2.30 a.m.' as a positive. So many nights just lying there, letting little problems and worries loom large in the dark, desperately waiting for daylight and normality to arrive.

  Well it's daylight now as I lie in bed but  I can't  stop dwelling on a remark my so-called friend (of 57 years)  made a few weeks ago. It is true what I'd  heard recently from a novel- " Age and disease and death may destroy our physical being but it is other people who get inside us and damage our hearts and minds."    Then a memory of my father's wisdom comes back to me.  As a child I was bullied during my schooldays  and Dad told me to say  "Sticks and stones can break my bones  but words will never hurt me," whenever I was teased or bullied. It got me through school and now I have a greater concern than a few cruel words from a friend. I am frightened. I must distract myself as. I grope for my iPad and fiddle with the buttons until I find the history podcast Richard set up this morning when he came to see me.

  Mussolini - now there was someone really evil - my friend, well she is just unthinking, a bit controlling too. Must stop ruminating over that .. back to Mussolini....didn't know he went to Nazi Germany...

"Wake up " I hear distantly and I'm wondering what happened when Mussolini met Hitler.

   So I did really sleep. And then I see the nurse, colours so bright, auburn hair. She gently helps me to sit up. Now I'm properly awake, no more looking through a dark smoky black veil, no more feeling my way around the house. Vision restored in my one good eye in just a morning ...and what a good sleep I had. Perhaps I'll just read about Mussolini.

 

Paula's story

As she tumbled into bed, her teeth brushed, her face washed, her pajamas buttoned, she glowed with the success of the night. It had been a night of firsts: the first time she defied her parents — although they probably would never know; after all, she did make curfew, she’s not that dumb. It was the first time she wore eyeliner, applied in secret backstage before the cast party, her first cigarette, her first taste of beer, her first kiss! She snuggled deeper into the covers, thinking of that kiss. And she wondered if Elena was thinking of it, too.

Elena. Just the sound of her name made Susan press her face deeper into her pillow and giggle with glee. She was the prettiest girl in school, or at least Susan thought so. A senior, Elena seemed to be everywhere on campus. And she had noticed Susan, a lowly freshman of all people, at the party to celebrate the last performance of this year’s school play.

Susan was still tingling, still a little in awe. She had spent the entire spring season sourcing fabrics and ribbons and notions, sewing patterns, fitting her classmates into the costumes that helped create the on-stage world of Romeo and Juliet. Elena, of course, had played Juliet, and Susan had been practically a bundle of nerves every time she helped her into the cumbersome outfits — or out of them, backstage, between scenes.

Susan knew she would never, just never, get to sleep! There were too many feelings, too many sensations, too many memories. The way Elena stared at her from across the room. (Although she couldn’t believe she, Susan, had been the subject of that piercing gaze.) The way Elena nodded slightly, smiled, then pointed to the hallway. The way Elena steered Susan toward the bathroom, then the way her arm brushed against Susan’s as they both reached for the handle to the door. The way Elena laughed, then pushed Susan into the bathroom, locking the door behind them. They way she shoved Susan up against the sink, holding her wrists, bending toward her until all Susan could smell was her shampoo, a faint scent of a musky cologne, a whiff of starch from Elena’s crisp white shirt.

And when Elena’s lips found Susan’s, Susan thought she was going to just die. This was actually happening, something she had dreamed about for so long. She squeezed her eyes shut tightly as Elena kissed her, softly at first, then roughly, thrusting her tongue into Susan’s surprised but willing mouth, moving her hands across Susan’s small breasts, hiking up Susan’s skirt to lift her onto the bathroom counter.

Just as suddenly, it was over. Someone knocked on the door, and Elena broke away, winked at Susan, pulled her off the counter, put a finger to her lips, then yanked open the door, drawing Susan out, arm in arm, giggling, as if they were just two high school girls sharing a laugh at a party.

And then, Elena disappeared into the crowd. And Susan’s older brother was at the door, come to drive his sister home.

Susan sighed into the darkness. She was in love; it had finally happened! She couldn’t wait for school on Monday. She knew Elena’s schedule; she knew they shared one of the four lunch periods. They would eat together every day. They would tell each other everything. They would go shopping together, have sleepovers at each other’s houses. Sleepovers! Oh, my. Susan grabbed her old teddy bear and hugged him tightly. Her life was about to change. She could hardly believe it. She was so happy.

As Saturday morning dawned, sunny and clear, Susan threw off her covers and bounded out of bed with an energy she had never felt before. She just couldn’t stop smiling.

Across town, another set of bedcovers, tousled and warm, moved slightly as two heads stirred. Elena woke first, burrowed deeper into the familiar warmth of Dawn’s naked body, and smiled as she recalled the bewildered ecstasy of the freshman who had had such a crush on her all spring.

What was her name again?

 

Patrice's story

He went to bed every night. But first, he hung his clean and pressed pajamas on the door outside the bathroom—the idea of moisture on his lovely pajamas made him shudder.  

He brushed his teeth.  Flossed.  Used mouthwash from the Baccarat decanter he stored it in.  He missed Uli - it was Uli’s idea to use the crystal decanter for the mouthwash, though he was making fun of Kurt when he made the suggestion. Kurt liked the way it looked.

He did his skin protocol - five steps - gazing at himself in the mirror - life as it was now, as it would always be.  He wiped the condensation from the mirror and then draped the microfiber cloth beneath the sink, out of sight.

He slid into the cool wrinkle-free pajamas, running his hands down the front appreciating the feel of the cloth.  He had already turned down the bed - a perfect inviting triangle - a lonely single corner of the bed.

When Uli left, Kurt had moved the TV. into the bedroom - where for hours Kurt stared dry-eyed, suffering at the 47” screen, hating every minute, refusing sleep because sleep brought dreams and dreams brought Uli.

The sheets, crisp cotton, ironed, resisted him momentarily, then gradually softened.  He turned to his left side - 1:30 - almost, almost fully down the pathway to sleep, he fell.  He imagined Uli, his dark eyebrows like wings, his lovely skin smooth from the shower, uncovered because he refused to wear pajamas.  Kurt put a pillow beneath his arm.  Uli was not there.

Morning like a slap - the light from the window across his face.  

Uli was still gone.  There was a TV in his bedroom.

Someone woke up.

 

 Jackie's story

I don’t really believe in ghosts, afterlife, and happenings of a psychic nature.   But, I must tell you about an frightening experience I had the other night.     I went to bed after a heavy dinner and perhaps a little too much to drink.     I felt a little light headed and drove home through a slight fog – looking forward to putting on my pajamas and laying my head on the pillow for a good nights sleep.

When I lay down , strangely enough the room started to turn round and round rather dramatically.   I watched the beams in my room close in on me and the bed started to spin uncontrollably.   I was feeling rather ill by this time and but managed to see that the direction the bed was shifting.   Seesawing  from right to left as if it was alive I felt myself going from one side of the bed to the other.  I felt it tip on its side and throwing me to the left side and I had to  clutch the bedclothes tightly to stop falling off .     This bed is bewitched I thought and as I tried to sit up some unknown being held my shoulders down by force and stopped me and my head seemed glued to the pillow. What was happening all around me and all of a sudden without notice the room started to shudder – like an earthquake – the stone walls grated against each other and the fillings between the joints started to fall off onto the floor and cover the floorboards with cement    Soon I was spitting out the sand as it poured into my mouth  – the bed sheets weighed heavily on my body.  I could feel grit in my mouth.  I tried to spit it out but my tongue was thick and stuck to the roof of my mouth.     Everything was so topsy turvy that I didn’t have time to think about the situation and understand  about what was happening.

   I wondered if there was a dead animal in the room All of a sudden a white silhouette appeared at the foot of my bed.   Floaty and indistinct accompanied by this terrible smell – a dead fox or even a bird in the forest smells bad but this smell was overpowering and nauseating.   A voice out of the blue –I am Sylvia a ghost from years gone by    I used to live in this house until a terrible accident took my life.   I always slept on the right side of the bed and got ill, had perpetual accidents and finally died.     This is a warning as you seem to be a nice lady – do not sleep on the right side which is the wrong side for women-  the side that causes nightmares and sickness and other awfulness.  Did you know that men most always choose the right side of a double bed and women the left.    I have tried to shake you into reality but now I’ll be able to go in peace as I think you have learned your lesson.

I quickly moved over to the left side.    Everything calmed down and  from now on I shall only sleep on the left side - 

 

Geraldine's story    

She slammed the door, rushed to the bathroom, had a long recomforting pee, brushed her
teeth and got into her nice cosy bed, under her warm quilt, and cuddled into her own arms !
Sometimes a personal cuddle is easier than love with another person !
What had happened to her ? Why had her day been so hectic and exhausting ? Why was
she feeling so tired and miserable ?
The year before, when she’d had left Burgundy to go back to her house in the States, she
had had the shock of her life. As she and her husband were heading back to their sweet
home – a very warm wooden log house – they stopped the car in front of it, got out, gave a
warm eye to the garden and the trees around them, stretched out after the long trip back
home ready for a long sleep from the jetlag and opened the door.
They were greeted by a stinking smell that caught their throats and immediately caught sight
of the disaster : water everywhere ! When they stepped inside, the water was over their
anckles, molded patches everywhere, all their books warped on the shelves, the carpett half
floatting between ground and ceiling.
A cry rose up, with a gasp ! Hell ! what’s been going on in here !
Then the phone rang :
- Hello ! Ah it’s you Bill.
- Hello ! You’re back ! I wanted to call you as quickly as I could ! When I came in to put
the heating on and get your house ready for you to come back to, I found it flooded.
Investigating, I found that the water pipe leading to the bathroom had a major leak. I
don’t know when it started, but as you can see, the damage is tremendous ! I don’t
know wether it can help, but I’ve found a 2 bedroom flat for you in town where you
can settle for a couple of weeks already. I’ll be around in 5 minutes.
She threw herself into her husband’s arms holding him tight : it was as if she had let go, she
would have fallen straight to the ground ! And they stood there, embraced for a long long
time that would have lasted forever if Bill’s car hadn’t stopped in front of the house. He
walked towards them and gave them a huge hugh : in this situation, hughs are better than
words.
Things settled : they stayed a fourtnight in the place Bill had found for them, they got a price
for the house, they went there everyday with cardboard boxes filling them with books,
notes, pots, jars, plates, cuttelry, pans, clothes, her jewellery, his tennis rackets, their
bedclothing, their pillows, and so forth…
They found a new place to live in, smaller, but that was OK considering their age. It was
nearer her husband’s children (already grown up), in a bigger city, with more libraries, music
halls, a University thus young people around, everything to start a new life.

And now, back in France for the ritual 3 months there, she felt lost. Was she afraid of going
back home to a new disaster ? Did she feel disconnected from her local friendships with
people that hadn’t gone through a trauma like hers ? Or was she just too tired to get herself
together ? Everything seemed so far, so inacessible ? Did she need more compassion than
everyone was giving her ? She didn’t know. All she knew was ho tired she felt, how difficult
she found it to pick up a bit of strength to move, to get enthusisastic ? to want, really want
something ? Was she having a depression after all these sorrows and changes in her life ?
She didn’t know. She didn’t understand. She felt lost.
She was getting agressive with everyone around her. Couldn’t hear what they wanted to get
through to her. Would’nt take their compassion, was acting like a capricious child : self
centered, not available, wanting love but not seeing that it was all around her, wanting to
get away, get away !
Her family and friends were worried, very worried. What could they do for her ? Because
whatever they did was never right or never enough ! And after that evening when everyone
thought she was doing better, the clash ! More agressivity ! She had walked out, slammed
the door and gone to bed !
As her friend woke up in the morning and got out of bed, she very deeply hoped the day
would be better than the previous one , hoping for a real connection !
    

 

 

The Dress

Sarah's story 

The Dress  3 – cat 

I knew it would be one of those nights—one of those days and nights—as soon as I saw the postman at the door.  My mistress was all excited as she took the package, and she rushed upstairs to open it.  Out tumbled a long soft dress, velvet they call it, and she gazed at it enthralled.  Then she tried it on, looking at herself backwards and forwards with great satisfaction.  It was clear she was mad about that dress.  How humans can get so excited about the things they put on themselves is a mystery to me.  It seems such a waste of time.  But I knew something was up, I’d seen it before.

And sure enough, she never sat down for the rest of the day, never stopped to stroke my fur—she barely remembered to give me my dinner, and me in the state I’m in!  Waltzing around, rummaging in her drawers for this and that, showering, washing and drying her hair, she was activity itself.  She did sit down once, for over half an hour, but there was no chance of my hopping onto her lap—she was too busy with creams and pencils and powders, making up her face, fixing her hair.  And then she got into the dress and paraded around a bit more, and finally she went out—as I knew she would.

So there I was alone in the house, as night came on, not that that really bothers me, as I can see in the dark.  It’s the absence of activity, the absence of presence that gets me down.  Whenever she leaves I’m afraid she is not coming back.  That actually happens sometimes, and the absence can go on for a week or more, though at such moments there is a machine that feeds me.  So food is not the problem.  It’s the company and the attention that I miss.  This time, however, I had some hope, as she didn’t pack a suitcase.

And indeed, she came back, but late, very late.  That I know because the street lamps were all out.  She looked and sounded quite happy, in fact she was singing, and though she wasn’t walking very steadily, she got upstairs all right.  She waltzed around a few more times,  took off the dress and kissed it—can you believe that?  She kissed the dress but she didn’t have the least caress for me.  Then she got more or less undressed, stumbling about the room, threw the dress onto the armchair and fell into bed, where she began to sleep happily, that is, she began to snore.  The noise didn’t bother me, I was glad to have her back, and besides I purr a lot myself.  So I settled on her stomach and curled myself up; I needed the warmth and comfort, especially right now.

But as morning dawns, I begin to feel the urgency.  Yes, the time has come.  I can’t stay here, on her, on the bed in plain view.  I need a secluded spot.  I jump down and look around.  Aha!  The dress has fallen off down behind the armchair.  A perfect spot: hidden away, out of sight and, hopefully, hearing.  When I get there and bed down on the dress, it’s just as warm and soft and cosy as I knew it would be!  And just in time.  I can feel the kits getting more and more restless, the first is ready to come out.  I couldn't have found a better place to have my kittens!

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Annemarie's story

'A Dress

2025 - and this was going to be a particularly special year for Geraldine; a noteworthy  birthday and anniversary and what tickled her most, she had been invited to a conference hosted by the  Apprentis d'Auteuil Foundation because her previous work had been as director of Mission Locale, working with young people. She was somewhat nervous about that but she wouldn't think about it now; she was much more excited about seeing all her family -  sons, their wives and grandchildren, some not seen for years. 

Plant pots prepared with a multitude of bulbs before Christmas  were placed around the house and garden; the dress was being made by her friend; a complete surprise and she would only see it the day before her party. How she loved surprises!

The  pots were full of tulips and spring flowers in an explosion of rainbow colours  Friends had offered to bring a cake or salad and the roast had been organised. She even had time to spend a few days  attending the Scrabble competition and  have a holiday in Réunion with family. The only fly in the ointment of her happiness was  the conference in two days. Her slight concern was that it was many years since her retirement and sometimes she didn't always understand an accent or she forgot an English word. She shrugged her shoulders - not to worry, she would cope as always. 

And today her friend was coming with the dress. Everything else was prepared for tomorrow's party: beds were made,  serried rows of glasses, towering mounds of plates (not paper), the garden a glowing mass of tulips, crocus, hyacinth and narcissi parading before the view of distant hills.  Just her surprise dress; Geraldine still had no idea what it was like.  Had she really agreed to it - unseen - the day before the party? Eager anticipation swamped slight trepidation.

She heard the clang of the front door bell. Ah, there she was. Her friend came in looking quite pleased with herself... but she was carrying a rather small bag. Geraldine was obviously going to have to wait for the surprise. She popped open the crémant and poured it  fizzing into the glasses and passed one to her friend. 

"A toast to you, Geraldine,"proposed her friend, "astonishing what you've achieved in your eight decades and still you're in demand," she exclaimed admiringly as she raised her glass and drank.

 " Now I will be quick" her friend said "because you have so much to do before tomorrow and I know it's quite some time since you worked so I've written down the finer points; you can peruse them at your leisure.

1. The skill of communication lies not only in the content of your message but also in how you deliver it.

2. When addressing people at a conference,  acknowledge special guests.

3 .   Introduce the main theme, refer to individuals by name, and stay engaged by respondi..."

"Just a minute, " interrupted Geraldine, "what  are you on about? Shall we just get straight to the dress- I'm dying to see it and try it on. You've hidden it outside, haven't you?"

"Uh? What dress? I thought you'd asked me to give you help with the address you have to make at the youth conference in a couple of days...Oh my goodness...what do you mean by a dress? "

When her friend left Geraldine glanced down at oh-so-helpful sheet of paper left lying on the coffee table; it was certainly not going to cover any part of her body tomorrow; then her eyes alighted on the final point

5. The core objective is to encourage understanding. Good luck, Geraldine!

________________________

Paula's story

The Dress

 

Molly gathered her courage and her self-respect, and left her marriage. After more than 30 years, it was a leave-taking of some import. But she had had enough of walking on eggshells in her own home, of realizing she was no longer truly loved, of knowing she deserved better.

The evening she moved into a tiny apartment all her own, she had a stern talk with herself: You will probably be alone for the rest of your life, she told herself. And that’s ok. You will always have your family, and your friends, but at 55, it’s a pretty good bet no Prince Charming is going to come along.

And then, two years later, he did.

He turned out to be a man she had worked with for years, a friend of long standing, a guy she had always thought of as kind of a younger brother: sharp-witted, smart, fun to hang out with. But romance? Nah. Until unexpectedly, to her at least, a spark kindled. And suddenly it was perfect.

Ben wanted to get married right away. A man of grand gestures, he declared: We’ll fly to Paris and be wed! Molly was charmed, but she was also worried about the loss of her health insurance, after leaving her job to work as a freelancer. The decision was made to be married as soon as possible, so Molly could be added to Ben’s insurance through work. Not very romantic, but necessary.

 Wedding Number One (the secret one):

September, 2006. Cape Cod, Massachusetts. A visit to Molly’s college roommate and her husband, the maid of honor and best man to be. A marriage license obtained from the local county commissioner. The dress: a beaded, cap-sleeved, knee-length sheath in shades of beige and silver, found on sale at a local department store. The venue: the grounds of a fabled lighthouse on the coast, officiated by a justice of the peace.

In the hour before the ceremony, the four friends walked to a restaurant where they ordered a bottle of Champagne to celebrate the upcoming nuptials. And that’s when Molly got a frantic phone call from her older sister: their mother had had an aneurysm, and was dying. Molly stood unsteadily on the dock of the seaside restaurant, Ben tight to one side of her and her dear friend Laurie on the other, her phone pressed to her ear as the neurologist told her and her three siblings that their mother was gone. “Do you want to go through with this?” Ben and Laurie both asked, gently. Molly didn’t hesitate. “It’s what Mom would have wanted.”

 Wedding Number Two (the official one):

April, 2007. Fremantle, Australia. A ceremony at the home of Ben’s high school pal Bill and his partner Sean. The dress: the beaded, cap-sleeved, knee-length sheath in shades of beige and silver. The venue: A deck overlooking the Indian Ocean. Ben’s three sons and Molly’s favorite aunt traveled around the globe to be there. Molly and Ben wrote their vows, which had been kept from each other, yet turned out to be eerily similar. The house was filled with food, and drink, and flowers, and Australian friends. The party went on into the wee hours of the morning.

 Wedding Number Three (the re-creation for family):

June, 2007. New Orleans, Louisiana. A celebration for family who were unable — or unwilling — to travel to Australia, including Molly’s three siblings, her nieces and nephews, and Ben’s sister, officiated by a dear friend of Molly and Ben’s. The dress: You guessed it. The beaded, cap-sleeved, knee-length sheath in shades of beige and silver. The venue: the lush back garden of Molly’s oldest sister. The vows were repeated, tears were shed, laughs were had, a candlelight dinner on the back porch was magical.

Years went by, and the dress, now sheathed in protective fabric, hung at the back of Molly’s closet. There would be no need for a fourth wedding. Life was good.

April, 2046. Epernay, France. A solemn procession, followed by a subdued meal full of memories and tears. The dress: a beaded, cap-sleeved, knee-length sheath in shades of beige and silver. The venue: A small, tree-shaded cemetery. Molly, bravely greeting her guests and not so bravely wishing she were in Ben’s place.

When she returned, alone, to the little stone cottage full of so many reminders of a beautiful life together, she shed the dress and hid it away. She knew she would never wear it again.

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 Jackie's story

The fight was fierce – tension had been building for months.   Arguments about where to go on holiday – who to invite for dinner and what to wear what to eat, what to do at weekends, - where was he ?– why did he come home so late – played bridge till 4 am – who with?   what was he doing – lipstick on the collar- credit card notices in pockets –jewelry bills for things I hadn’t received like  necklaces, rings and a very expensive watch.  

Yes, I was living in his apartment – I had moved in a few years ago – at the beginning all hunky dory and loving and you know what its like those first few years of new love   Shopping and presents, wonderful clothes I couldn’t really afford myself,  diners and flowers, surprises, and admiration.  

 

    Bit by bit it changed and all that I described in the above became more and more frequent   -       I had felt ignored for quite a while -  he hadn’t tried to hide the evidence it was if he wanted it to happen – he needed to reassure himself before …

He threw me out – gave me a few days to clear my things at least

So I had to move and it cost me a lot as his apartment was very special – lots of light and sunshine almost all day.   Overlooking the Eiffel tower and the river Seine flowing below.   5 minutes to the best shops in town.   I loved living there and it was very comfortable          A bliss of a place to live.

I found somewhere else to live though, in a rough area in the North of Paris – the landlord hadn’t repainted or repaired for years and the previous tenant had left pile of rubbish as a present for me to clear up.    I managed though, got a job in Monoprix and convinced myself that the few years before had been a dream life and I was lucky to have had that experience.

One morning though as I was looking for something to wear - I remembered with horror that some of my summer clothes had been stored away in a trunk for the winter months in his apartment .   I had forgotten them in my haste to get away.    Would I dare go to the apartment and ask for them back?   It took quite a lot of courage and finally after weeks of building up the nerve to do so I presented myself one morning at the old apartment.   The concierge let me in to the block and I climbed the three flights of stairs .      I rang the bell of his apartment praying out loud and hoping that there would be no one in– to my horror this woman/girl/fiend/catfish  faced monster opened the door.

A few years younger than myself – black eyes,  flicking back her bleached blond hair over her shoulder with scarlet nails 3cm long at least and very high heels – wearing – would I believe my eyes  - yes, my very own dress.    I recognized it immediately as it had special pink pearly buttons down the front.  I had picked the buttons up in a brocante a long while ago and waited for the right dress to sew them on.   As I was catching my then furious breath,  I noticed that one of the buttons was almost loose and the threads were hanging down.     If she was to wear my dress then at least take good care of it.   But no I couldn’t let this pass I must have the dress back and I wouldn’t back down.        She must have recognized me as she tried to shut the door in my face but I had a foot in the door and then this is what I did…..

And this is where you come in dear friends

Please write down what you think you would do in this situation.