Black magic woman
This weekend I took a break from writing and dreamt up stories instead. You see I finally welcomed a pair of lace flares into my life, after a week of craving lace and watching old videos of Cher and dreaming of the desert and the stars. Yesterday my man and I watched The Help, a fine movie that included all of the things that keep me captivated; overcoming adversity, retro fashion and black sass. Following the movie I slunk into my newly found flares and went for a wander in the woods where we experimented with southern accents, drawl and twang. Our moment of play sparked a number of stories, all inspired by my lace bells.
The Riches to Rags Girl
She grew up with the children of the stars, in the Hollywood Hills and the boulevard. Rockstars wrote songs about her life, but she never cared. She was too busy trying to escape the palm trees and live her life anywhere but there. Some might call her a rebel, though most saw her as a black sheep. One that didn’t really care about the glitz and glamour, and she could never sleep. One night at a party she stole a pair of pants from Cher. They were long, black, lacey and with a flare. Now she lives a quiet life over at a diner on Route 66. Pouring coffee, clearing tables and living off what she makes in tips. But every once and a while she goes home on a hitch, to soak in the bath tub, dye her hair and remember what it was like to be rich.
From since she could remember she knew it was wrong. They really don’t give you much credit when you are young. But she knew she was different, and what they fed her were lies. For she grew up in a cult where outsiders were considered spies. But one day when she was strong enough to go, she hitched a ride in the middle of the night to New Mexico. Once there she stripped off her white angelic dress, bought a pair of black lace flares, big glasses and tangled her braid into a mess. She was a wild child now, a wanderer she thought, and that night she drank and danced and never got caught. Today she still tramps the pavement of Albuquerque in flares. Her trailer, friends and record player – her only real cares. All that matters to her now is that she’s here to stay, and every day she thanks God that she was a runaway.
The White Witch
In a small town called Ashland in Kansas is a White Witch. She lives in an oak lodge and likes to listen to songs by Kate Bush, Carol King and Stevie Nicks. Most of the folks in town think she’s a little suspicious, anti-social and deviant, but then again they never really gave her a chance and wrote her off as disobedient. They don’t like the way she smells of sage and incense, wears black lace flares, a million rings and lives a life of pretence. In her world magic is real and spells can come true. She brews potions for love, has a black cat and reads books that are taboo. But her heart is pure and she only uses magic for good. You see she never out grew her imagination and is really just misunderstood. Instead of growing up and buying sensible furniture from department stores, she plays make believe, collects feathers and roams the outdoors. At night she returns to her lodge and sits by the fireplace, plays stiff-as-a-board with friends and rubs glitter on her face. By midnight they chant outside and howl at the moon. Twirl, laugh, cast spells and sleep until noon.