Snowe and the Dwarf

 

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In my youth I remember my parents fawning over me.  “Oh, such a pretty little girl,” they said. “Skin white as snow, hair black as jet, lips red as berries.”  They even named me ‘Snowe’.  That ‘e’ on the end was, I suppose, their creative twist.  They always considered themselves somewhat avant-garde although in reality, before the pageants, we lived in the squalor of a  trailer park, supported solely by government food stamps and my father’s seemingly permanent unemployment checks.

I was eight years old when my parents first decided it would be a good idea for me to enter the Little Princess Glamour Pageant.  At age eight, I was perhaps a late bloomer, but that was the year my parents became avid fans of children’s beauty pageants, after having persuaded my Uncle Billy Jack to hook up a pirate cable station in our trailer.  After a while, even Uncle Billy Jack thought their obsession with children’s pageants  was quite bizarre and unhealthy.  Billy Jack attempted to unhook the cable, but once it was up and running, he could not seem to undo it no matter how hard he tried.  My mother just smiled, hands on her hips as she watched.  “Who’s the fairest, who’s the fairest?” she’d scream to the TV, often playing a game with herself to predict the winner.  The TV reception was  fuzzy but still, it gave my parents plenty of ideas.

Finally, they bought a thrift store dress, some cheap rhinestone jewelry and entered me in the pageant. I had no say in this matter.

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As it turned out, I won first place. My parents drooled over me and drooled even more over the $10,000 prize money I pulled in. This began a long journey of what I call my ‘Pageant Years’.

I became known for my trademark look; pale as a corpse, coal black hair, blood red lips.  I was almost a child vampire and I suppose my exotica impressed the judges. I was never allowed to go out in the sun, for my mother feared any bronzing of my skin or lightening of my hair would alter my appearance and end my winnings.

As I got older, my mother fussed and worried about keeping me ivory white.  She took to bleaching my skin with sponges soaked in Clorox.  They burned like a wasp’s sting and made me smell like a chlorine pool. My mother also darkened my hair with shoe polish.

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At the age of twelve I was taken to a disreputable doctor who injected my lips with Botox and some type of stain to keep them permanently red.  He charged an exorbitant amount of money for this procedure.  The red lip dye affected my taste buds.  All food became cardboard to me.  This may have been just as well, as my parents then put me on a diet of wheat germ and vega-thaw to keep my weight down.  “The swimsuit competition is IMPORTANT, Snowe,” my mother said. “We can’t have you getting chubby now, of all things!”

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At age fourteen I was taken to a plastic surgeon for breast enhancements and liposuction. By then my mother was worried that my skin had lost its little girl elasticity, and my father thought my breasts were not developing fast enough.  The surgery rid my thighs  of every ounce of cellulite.  My new breasts ballooned like enormous silicone melons.  My parents then hired a personal trainer. He was a Nazi taskmaster who did all but crack a whip at my back to keep me ‘fit’ and ‘nubile’.  I performed a four hour daily workout routine which included weight training, calisthenics and long distance running.

As a result of my low caloric intake and this constant exercise, my body hardened to a mass of muscle.  I never menstruated.  My mother thought this was a good thing. The monthly blood flow, she said, would only make me a ‘hag on the rag’.

All this hard work and body alterations apparently paid off, for in my competitions I had no rival.  My exotic looks made the judges’ heads spin around. I won  title after title.  Miss County Cuteness.  Miss Bodacious Beauty.  Miss Gorgeous Girl. Miss Pretty as a Picture. And the silly lists went on. With all my winnings we abandoned our trailer and my parents bought a mansion on the ritzy side of town.

By the time I was sixteen I was quite tired of this ridiculous routine.  I was no more than a trained dolphin, entering competition after competition.  How I longed to get away from it all!   And so, when Cadbury’s Colossal Carnival came to town, performing for one night only, I saw it as a perfect chance for my escape.

Because my parents kept such a careful watch on me, I normally would not have been allowed out at night, but  Uncle Billy Jack helped me.  He thought up an ingenious scheme of mixing sleeping tablets in my parents’ cocktails on the night the carnival arrived.  It worked wonderfully.  By 7 pm both of my parents were in the land of nod. Sprawled on their fluffy couches they snored loudly as their vast home entertainment system flashed image after image.  (Mostly beauty pageants.)  Billy Jack gave me a ride to the carnival in his pick-up truck.  I really wanted him to have a better car, but my parents, as my legal trustees, kept all my winnings to themselves.  I had not seen a penny of it. I did not even know how much I had earned.

The carnival itself was magnificent! Ferris wheels and tilt o whirls, spinning reels of neon lights as the zipper and Pharaoh’s Fury rocked back and forth.

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There were concession stands of funnel cakes, hot dogs and pretzels. I bought a pink cloud of cotton candy but then cursed my stained lips as the bland wisps of sugar melted in my mouth, tasteless as water.  How I longed to be normal!  I sadly realized I could no longer remember what ‘normal’ was.

Nonetheless I would not let this ruin my escape plan! I silently admitted, with some sheepishness, that I actually did not have a plan. But I knew I could not go back home.

Lights flashed and harpsichord music blasted.  Barkers beckoned, “Step right up!” and arcade rifles blasted. Girls walked with armfuls of teddy bears. Gypsy women in dazzling clothes told fortunes as the merry-go-rounds spun and the bumper cars bumped. In the center of all this chaos was the big top, an enormous tent where the real entertainment was about to begin.

First up were the elephants, next the clowns and then the tigers with their trainer.  I watched as they jumped through hoops of fire. I pitied these animals; for they were no better than myself, trained performers, put on a treadmill to entertain the crowd.

Next came the freak show. A bearded lady proudly displayed her two faces, one with a thick growth of hair, the other smooth, feminine, elfin.  Two sides of a same but much different coin. There was the Frog Man, his body literally covered with warts. Then a petite contortionist shut her body up like an umbrella, folding limbs like bent spokes until she actually fit into a tiny  glass jar.  I had never seen anything like it.

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Last of all came the troupe of dwarfs. They tumbled onto the stage, dancing, cartwheeling,  even swinging on a trapeze.

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Directing them was one who I knew must be the leader. His name, I would find out later, was  Gilgamesh .

Despite his small stature, Gilgamesh was magnificent.  His tumbling and dance skills were matched by no other.  Even from where I sat I could see the sinew of his arms, the curve of his calves. My stomach fluttered as I watched him. His complexion was ruddy, with a mane of red hair and a thick neck protruding from his square shoulders.  He had short firm thighs and small but wide feet that reminded me of a Hobbit.

I had not met many men before, save for those hideous pageant hosts.  Oh, they were annoying, those hosts!  Fake smiles, moussed hair and cheesy jokes.  But now. Here before me, THIS was a man of the earth!

A tree trunk of flesh, gnarled elbows, deep hard eyes that spotted me from across the ring.  This was a real man, and never mind his dwarfism!  To say it was love at first sight sounds trite, but  Gilgamesh  captured me.

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At the show’s end I decided I must meet him. I pushed my way backstage, shy as I was, forcing myself every step.  I did not know what I’d even say to him. Yet when we met he was oddly gracious. He thought I wanted an autograph and was genuinely surprised to find I wanted no such thing.  Somehow I knew, I sensed it would be him who could bring my freedom.

The carnival was leaving town that night and I begged  Gilgamesh  to take me with him.  He cocked his head, looked at me as if I were a sad  puppy.  I explained every detail of my life at my parent’s house, the terror of the pageants, the alterations that had been forced upon my body.  Finally he said he could not refuse me.  As the roustabouts packed gear, Gilgamesh and I sat under the stars, speaking of all our hopes and dreams and fears.  I felt as if I had known him forever.

It was during this conversation I found myself growing increasingly hungry. The cotton candy had been nothing, a spider web of sugar within me.  Gilgamesh, upon hearing the roar of my stomach, promised he had the perfect thing for me.  From his pocket he produced an apple. It was large, red and ripe, so big it was a basketball in his small hands.

It had been years since I had eaten an apple.  My mother had always been so worried about my sugar intake, even fruit was not allowed.  Gilgamesh  held the apple to my lips and I eagerly bit in.

It was then the dye that had been implanted in my lips seemed to dissolve.  I could taste the apple!  For the first time in so many years I could taste the sweet tartness, the faint flavor of earth. It was delicious.  Ravenously I gnawed until there was nothing left but the core. I then continued to eat, swallowing every bit, seeds included.  I could not stop myself. I then felt my cheeks go hot.

The train was  leaving.  Gilgamesh  said I could ride with him in his bunk.  As captain of his troupe he had the largest room. “No luxury,” he said, “But I believe you will be comfortable.”  I laughed and informed him I had been raised in a trailer park.

Once we’d boarded the train he directed me to the bathroom.  It was there I came upon a small mirror on the wall.  Glancing into it, I could not believe my eyes.

Who was the woman I now saw in the glass?  To be clear, she was a woman, not a  child.  My skin was flushed and bronzed, not at all like someone who has been kept from the sun all her life.  My lips?  They were normal. Normal size.  No longer blown out of proportion with Botox. No longer  blood red, but a natural color of peach pink. Was I now normal?  My hair, although still dark, was a creamy shade of brown, free of the shoe polish dye.  I smelled my own arms. No bleach or chlorine. I smelled only my skin and sweat and the green soap I had pumped from the bathroom spout.  I smelled like a woman.

I joined Gilgamesh in his bunk. Tenderly, skillfully, he kissed my lips. His fingers found their way to my breasts, no longer silicone but now soft mounds of flesh and nipple, small enough to be cupped in his tiny hands.

In time Gilgamesh and I would be wed.  My menstrual cycle would  begin and move naturally with the phases of the moon.  I would become the mother of his children.  In time Uncle Billy Jack would find a skilled lawyer who would help me regain my pageant winnings from my parents. Gilgamesh  and I would then leave the carnival, purchase our own farm, and take some of the show animals with us, freeing them as well from this life of bondage.

But for now it was enough that he held me, cradled me in his knotted arms. I shed tears  and buried my face in his chest. The train rumbled on through the summer night.  I never entered a pageant again.

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This post is in response to the daily prompt Youth

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Bette Davis Eyes

 

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“Her hair is Harlow gold, her lips a sweet surprise

Her hands are never cold; she’s got Betty Davis eyes.”

Old Hollywood, known for its tyrannical practices, managed to produce some of the most badass and ballsy women to ever grace the silver screen.  Bette Davis was among them. These no nonsense females invented shoulder pads and knew just what it “takes to make a pro blush.”   They will always have Paris.

Buckle your seat belt, it’s going to be a bumpy ride.  A tribute to  silver screen  divas! 🙂

 

 

This post is in response to the Daily Prompt Eyes

Fun With Werewolves

 

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“I saw a werewolf with a Chinese menu in his hand, walking through the streets of Soho in the rain…”

Sorry guys, I could not resist!   In honor of tonight’s full moon, this short video combines one of my favorite horror movies and one of my favorite songs.

To bring out the howler in us all 🙂

 

 

This post is in response to the Daily Prompt Moon

Charon and the Underworld

 

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It is I who carries them. The diseased, the comatose, the broken and the crippled. The murdered, the accidents, the suicides. I carry them all.  My task is to bring them to the shores of the Underworld.  Some call me the Grim Reaper, some call me the Angel of Death, but my true name is Charon the Ferryman.   With my faithful dog Cerberus by my side, I transport passengers across the River Styx to the left bank where my master Hades and his wife Persephone gleefully  await their arrival.  This is my job and I would have no other.

You have, no doubt, read about Cerberus.  The books will claim he has three heads and  that he is a vicious howling thing. The books tell a grave lie!   Nothing could be further from the truth!  Cerberus is a magnificent animal, sensitive and loyal, the best companion any captain could wish for.

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As you might imagine, I am overworked and underpaid, receiving a mere danake for each body I transport.    It is with much effort I perform my tasks, lifting  dead weight, often times nearly sinking my ship.  All the while I myself am the sole oarsman, no help from another.   I am old but strong.  In the sweltering summer heat, in the dead of winter, I move decrepit  flesh, withered limbs and wasted organs. All  go to the kingdom of Hades. How the Lord and Lady love this, the game of new souls.

On some days Cerberus and I have literally thousands of passengers.  In seasons of plague and famine my job is hectic, but the busiest of all is wartime. I am then given an endless shipment of bodies, wounded and maimed, all senseless deaths. Yet Humankind persist in foolishly killing one another, bickering over causes they cannot even define!   Wartime is indeed the biggest failure of  all humanity.

Now, upon the planet earth, it is ALWAYS wartime.

Often I enter hospital rooms and see to it that patients, once full of life, become no more than a flat-lined  blip on a computer screen. I am the stopping of hearts, the stopping of lungs. I am the malfunction of digestive tracts. I am the ethereal glove that takes a soul from a coma.

Yet I do it all in mercy.

I am wise in my choices of whom I will transport. Discreet and selective. Yet I am not perfect. Sometimes I make a mistake, choosing one  who is not yet ready for death.

Today there is one such as this. A youth, not more than seven years old. She lies on a hospital bed, the civilian victim of war’s crossfire.  I am reluctant to take her. But her  body suffers so! The doctors speak of amputation, for little her legs have been so disfigured.   Her heart beats weakly.  I cannot bear to see the poor thing in this state!  And so, in my kindness, I take her.

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Now, on my ferry, I can sense that the child longs to go back to the land of the living. She squirms, stirs in her sleep, flutters her eyes open.  She cannot speak but I know she sees me.  She sees Cerberus and I as we hover above her. Cerberus watches with soulful eyes. He whimpers, pleading to me.  “This one cannot be taken. Not yet.”

It is always wise to rely upon the judgment of a dog. In the Underworld of reversed language, dog is actually spelled g-o-d.  Cerberus is never wrong.   I know instantly I have made a mistake with this young cherub.

Before we have reached the third bend in the river, right before the waterfall, I give the child a vision.

I show her a dark tunnel of which she is flying through, ever so slowly.  At the end of the tunnel is a white light.  Often times in a case like this, I will provide the deceased with the vision of a deity, one they have been taught to venerate.  This may be a Christ or an Allah,  a Mother or a Mountain. It makes no difference, for all are the same. But the child I now charm is an innocent. She has been taught nothing of religion, has no preconceived notions.  I provide her only the vision of light, blazing in shades of star and ivory, beckoning her with pure love. Beyond this point all choice will be hers.

The child has a family. Parents and siblings that love her dearly. She is the youngest of five children.  The family, Cerberus relays to me, would be devastated by her loss. Still the choice must be her own.

We reach the left bank. There Hades and Persephone greet us, beckoning us into their lush gardens where time has stopped.

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My Lord and Lady watch closely as Cerberus leans over the child. She is able to pet him, although she still cannot speak. Hades and Persephone already adore the child, would love to have her in their kingdom, where she would never know war again. However, as always they leave the choice to the human.  Cerberus then barks. The decision has been made.

*          *          *         *

 

Upon the operating table of Hilldecker Children’s Memorial Hospital, a little girl flutters her eyes open. She is now conscious after a 24 hour coma. This child is young and strong, sustaining a multitude of injuries, but she will be healthy in time.   The doctors determine she will need no amputations.

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Once fully conscious, the child will tell a tale; there was a tunnel with a white light at the end. There was  a journey , she will say, on a river with an old ferry captain. There was a lovely woman and a handsome man who greeted her on the river’s bank in a garden of colors, the like of which she had never seen before nor will ever see again in the waking world.  She will tell the tale of a dog that brought her back to health.

The adults of the community will dismiss her story as a dream. Some experts of paranormal studies will take seriously only the part about the tunnel and the white light. It is easy, you see, for humankind to understand a metaphor. The light at the end of the tunnel.  I, Charon the Ferryman, invented that very metaphor!

In time, a journalist will contact this girl and her parents.  A book will be written describing the afterlife.  It will be titled “The Afterlife: A true near-death experience.” (Or something similar. Dozens of such books have been written.)   The book, however, will not be entirely  true. It will be contorted and distorted to fit the needs of media moguls and the quasi-spiritual  public. The book will become a best seller. A best selling lie.

None of humankind will know the true beauty of Hades kingdom, for this cannot be described in words.  That is a memory that will  be known only by the girl, myself, and all who enter the Land of the Dead.

 

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This post is in response to the Daily Prompt Carry

Anne Boleyn Speaks

 

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To say the King fancied me is an understatement. To say he loved or adored me is misleading as well.   In truth, King Henry the Eighth was obsessed with me. Obsessed in a way most would consider quite unnatural.  This of course was no fault of his own. He was but human.  Yet his obsession would lead to the transformation of an entire empire.

It is true I was beheaded. But my kind never dies. We dwell in the weft and weave of all we once were.   I am in the creaks of staircases, the plaster of palace walls, the jewels of the crown.  My tale, albeit tragic, is one of pride and power.

My  influence remains, even to this day.  But I will start at the beginning.

Everything  about King Henry was exciting. He was a man of risk and bold adventure.  His palace was  magnificent; floors of dark oak, velvet draperies and crystal chandeliers.  He wore robes of sable, chains of gold, ruby rings. I  was no stranger to luxury,  having  lived a good deal of my life  in the French court where I served as a handmaiden to the Queen Mary and  Princess Claude. When I came to Henry’s palace I determined I’d have the finery of a queen, for nothing else would do.

In my French education I had learned courtly ways, the manners and expectations of the high born.  I knew, only too well, the fate of girls who gave favors to a king.  Once bedded, never wedded.  I liked to say that as a joke though it was not really funny.  Such had been the  fate of my sister Mary, a concubine, once mistress to the King, but later tossed  aside with a bastard in her womb.  Mary Boleyn is remembered as nothing more than a  whore. I vowed such would never happen to me!

And so it was, when King Henry took a liking to me, I determined I would have no intimacy with him until he’d wed me in a proper church.   In his lust Henry pursued me and I teased him. Oh how I teased him!  For I knew the truth;  a woman’s tease is the most powerful thing in all of this world.

 

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One small problem was, of course, that Henry was already married. His first wife,  Queen Catherine of Aragon, refused to grant him a divorce. Indeed, the Pope  himself refused to grant Henry a divorce!   And so Henry, after much distress and mounting desire for me, decided to finally break from the Church of Rome.

“Damn the Pope, damn them all,” he declared. “I will have you, Anne Boleyn! I will have you, even if I must create my own church in order to do so!”

And that was exactly what Henry did; he created his own religion, declared himself divorced from Catherine and became the sole ruler of both church and state.  All this was, of course, the result of  my masterful seduction.

We  were wed far away from the palace at the white cliffs of Dover. After that, and only after that, did I agree to share Henry’s bed. It was then also that he noticed my sixth finger, the tiny web of flesh that grew from my hand.

 

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I was an expert at hiding it, wearing long sleeves that slipped far past my wrists.  It was an unsightly thing but it was my branding. It spoke of my true identity. Times being what they were, executions rampant, we witches lived in the shadows.

King Henry, however, was  infatuated and made no matter of my finger. To him it was a mere peculiarity, a fetish. He invented ways to incorporate it in our sex play and I daresay it pleased him immensely.

 

 

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Soon, much to Henry’s delight,  I fell pregnant.

More than anything in the world, Henry wanted a son. A legitimate male child could be the only proper heir to the throne of England. So said the law.  In his hope and anxiety Henry convinced himself that our child was a boy.  And so, when my daughter, the red haired Elizabeth arrived in this world, wailing with a voice as big as the sea, Henry was mortified.

“The next child shall be male,” he said crisply.  This even before he first held Elizabeth in his arms.

The next child. Ha!  Little did my husband know, there would be no next child!  I’d make sure of it.   What followed were a series of miscarriages and stillbirths.  With each one Henry despised me more.

A son.  Oh, I could very well have given Henry a son!  It took no more than a poultice of rooster’s blood placed under a man’s pillow for seven nights in a row.  (After which he must be fed snake meat, precisely seven hours before the act of intercourse. Any proper witch knew this!)  It was a simple spell.   My own mother had used  it to conceive my brother George. It worked without fail.

Why did I not use it, you ask?  Why not indeed?  I had the future of England in my very hands!  But you see, that was precisely my reason; the future of England.

Three years passed and I bore no more children.  It was then that Henry decided he’d need a new wife.  He set his sights upon  the Lady Jane Seymour. She was a mousy little thing, hardly a comparison to the likes of me.   But my fate was already cast and I knew Jane would be Henry’s next wife.

There were many in the palace who turned against me.  Many  who spread lies and rumors. By then all knew of my sixth finger. They accused me of witchcraft, saying I had charmed the King into our very marriage.

It was true, of course, that I was a witch. That much I could not help, being born into the line of Howard on my mother’s side. Every female of the Howard line inherited some measure of the witch blood. I had been graced with plenty.  My daughter Elizabeth had even more! For this reason I knew she must be queen.  She would command the winds and the seas. With her psychic powers and gift of sight she would become the best spy in all the world.  Elizabeth would use her power for goodness and treachery alike,  for all is fair in love and war.

Once I had birthed Elizabeth nothing else mattered. In fact, I would have been quite content to age gracefully, take my place as consort, outlive my husband and watch my daughter rule gallantly.

But no.  Henry would not have it.

He needed a reason to execute me and having nothing better to accuse me of, he chose adultery.  For my part, I had always been faithful. And yet, Mark Smeaton, my  court musician was accused of bedding me.  This was quite outrageous!   Master Smeaton was a lover of men, he cared only for men, that was plain as the day is long. He had not an inkling of interest in my flesh nor that of any woman.    Despite this he was my good friend, keen to serenade me, frequently relaying the gossip of the palace.  Such brought his downfall.

 

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Another accused was my brother George. My own brother!  Although I had lived at French court and I will admit to many peculiar tastes in the bed chamber —  incest was certainly not among them!  George was horrified.

 

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Under the King’s law Mark and George were tortured, and torture back then was quite gruesome.  The rack, thumbscrews, the iron maiden and strappado.  The twisting and popping of fingers, pricking of blades, arms dislodged from sockets. Stretching of flesh till torsos were disfigured  beyond recognition. Blood poured and wails of pain resounded until finally Mark and George confessed to vile acts they had never committed.

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And me?  My fate was to be the executioner’s block.

My husband, in his grudging mercy, had been kind enough to bring a skilled executioner from France; one so swift with a sword that my head would be gone before I realized he had sliced me.  My death, however, would not be a true death.  I knew this and made a joke of it till the very end.

 

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Years later, when my daughter Elizabeth finally took her rightful place on the throne, she employed a magi by the name of Master John Dee.

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This was much to my delight, for Master Dee, being skilled in all manner of conjuring and summoning, was one of the rare beings who could contact my spirit and allow my return to the earthly plane. And so it was I reunited with my Elizabeth!  I appeared to her in the flesh, for the crossing of dimensions is quite easy if one has a proper conjurer.  (The afterlife is not so very different from this life as humans know it; although it is a good deal easier and far more fun. )

 

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Elizabeth had also employed a privy council, a collection of old gentleman, gray haired and sensible. From these she ostensibly took direction.  Yet it was I who truly advised her.

It was I who told  Elizabeth never to marry.  A husband, I cautioned, would take all her power. And most likely  her head as well!  (You see I am quite the jester. Perhaps I missed my calling in life.)   But in seriousness,  Elizabeth would have no man to command her!   And if any questioned this decision, she would merely claim she was ‘wed to England’.   That silenced their criticisms.

It was I who advised Elizabeth on war and peace, economics and all matters of state. My daughter served a reign of over forty five years. During that time she brought England to glory, winning wars, sustaining a solvent treasury and establishing the strongest navy in all the world.

My only regret was that Elizabeth had birthed no legitimate heir. There had been babies born to her, oh yes!  Boys and girls alike, delivered in secret, hidden by midwives. My daughter was a woman of passion. No virgin she, despite what historians claim.  The Howard line was kept alive by Elizabeth!   But upon her death the crown had no recognized successor.  Elizabeth’s council  decided upon  James of Scotland.  For my part I had no say in it.

Alas, James was a poor ruler, no friend of the people, certainly no diplomat.   To make matters worse, James  had put more witches to death than any other monarch in the history of Great Britain!

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His line obviously could  not be permitted to last!   And so it was I cast a spell, and James’ sons were usurped from the throne.  England was thrown into civil war.  All this could have easily been avoided if only they had left a witch in charge!  Foolish men.

Yet our power would be restored.

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In the twentieth century, another great female would come to power.  This woman would  be descended through the line of Howard. (Leave the blood work and DNA to a genealogist. It is complicated! Suffice it to say, this is true and none should challenge me on this fact! )

This new queen would also serve a term of over forty five years.  By the end of her reign England would once again be restored to peace and prosperity.

This new monarch would  be called Elizabeth.

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This post is in response to the Daily Prompt Obsessed

Maybe…

 

dream-vision pd

somewhere                                                                                                                                                between                                                                                                                                                     Bermuda triangles tangles comets and                                                                                               satellite celluloid  there exists                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            a  black  hole                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     and some person  who is                                                                                                                              a near likeness to you                                                                                                                           sits on a shore where time                                                                                                                         moves in different increments

No one is ever late

or early

or even ‘punctual’

 

They need                                                                                                                                                       no elections no protections, no laws  no cause

they never                                                                                                                                                     EVER                                                                                                                                                                 say things like ‘tomorrow’ or

‘maybe’ or  ‘someday’

They just are.

Being

Here

Now.

 

dreams pd 3

 

This post is in response to the Daily Prompt  Maybe