BBs Blog

While going through the Flickr Interestingness stream last week I saw a couple of pictures of high heels that inspired me to try my hand at shoe photography. The picture you will see at the end of this column is the result of that little experiment. Now some who gaze upon this picture will see nothing more than a not so great shot of a pair of heels and shawl. But, those with vivid imaginations might look upon the photo and see a little story or poem within it. I know that after I looked at the picture for a few minutes, I began to see several possibilities for a short story in it. Including, thanks to the Alfred Hitchcock magazine I subscribe to, perhaps even a murder mystery. That’s when I decided that I was going to do something a little bit different this week, and try and use the photo as a means of inspiring others.
I invite all those who have active imaginations to gaze for a moment at this picture, and let your imaginations run completely amok. Forget the gilded heels and golden shawl belong to me, and pretend this is a photo you happened to run across by accident on the net. Or did you find it when you moved into a new house, and discovered a trunk full of old photos in the attic? Or were you going through a family photo album, and found it there? The imaginary possibilities of how you came to discover this photo can be as endless as the possibilities within the photo itself.
Try to let your mind see all the possibilities that lay within the play of light and shadow dancing within the picture. Ask questions such as, does the picture represent a golden moment in which a woman danced the night away with the man of her dreams? Or does it represent someone walking towards what may be a golden moment? Or is she walking away from something? Perhaps a child has discovered her mother’s gilded heels and golden shawl, and has been playing dress up in them? Is that child you? Or is it your little girl?
If anyone is inspired to write a little story of 350 words or less, or bit of poetry about the picture, I will be more than glad to publish it on Musings From The Bottle. Just copy and paste it in the body of an email, and send it to me. Be sure and include the name you wish the story or poem published under in the email.
Even if the photo offers you no inspiration for a story or poem, please to take a moment to look at it and if nothing else, recall some of the golden moments of your life. Or if you are in a situation that you wish you weren’t, see yourself walking away from that situation, and into one that has the possibility of becoming a golden moment.
As I mentioned in the first paragraph of this column, I am an Alfred Hitchcock magazine fan, and especially love the Mysterious Photo contest stories. In the spirit of those Mysterious Photo contests, which have a 250 word limit, I was inspired to write a very short story of murder and mayhem. I hope my readers enjoy the photo, whatever stories or poetry it might inspire, as well as my own little story inspired by it.

Dis-Charming

Cinderella’s slippers were reported to be glass in the fairy tale in which she danced the night away with a prince. After that night ended, the prince would search his kingdom high and low to once more find the beautiful woman whose foot fit the tiny slipper she had left behind.
The detective looking at the gilded heels seemingly stepping across the golden shawl would search high and low for clues that would lead him to the man responsible for the murder of the woman who had once danced in those shoes.
He was a seasoned homicide veteran who had seen much worse carnage than the strangled woman sprawled across the pink bedspread. But something about those gilded heels and golden shawl struck a nerve in detective Lobos. As with all murder victims, her life would be carefully scrutinized in the hopes that it, along with forensic evidence gathered from the body, bedspread, and apartment would lead them to her killer. The heels and shawl though, spoke to him of dreams of golden of moments that should have ended with her in the arms of a loving man she would always see as her Prince Charming. After taking a quick shot of the heels and shawl with his cell phone camera, he went back into the bedroom to supervise the CSI team as they gathered evidence.
Over the next two months, it would be that photo that drove Harry Lobos to find the jealous ex boyfriend who had strangled the lovely brunette woman.

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I am also including a little story by my best friend Moon_Magick, who I talked to in advance about this idea in order to get her valued opinion on it. She not only loved the idea, but sent me this wonderful little story as well.

Fringe and Fluff

I looked up from my newspaper to gaze across the room at Marselina. Her deep, soulful brown eyes did not catch my gaze and she continued to stare at the hearth as if to absorb the flames licking hungrily at the pine logs. Her nose twitched as the scent of the burning wood drifted outside the perimeter of the source.
She rose and stretched sensuously; completely aware my eyes watched her progress to the cottage door. The waft of cool air into the room was the only unspoken good-bye. As was her way, leaving without a word, I had long accepted her eccentricity.
I heard the whisper of softness sigh, but busy working the jumble, taking little heed. Then click, click, thump but again failed to be distracted from the cryptoquip. When the second click, click, thump resounded, I looked up from reading to wonder.
As Marselina re-entered, I could tell by the light in her eyes mischief was afoot.
I re-read my horoscope which stated “check out a source of information and where all this is come from”. She soft-footedly returned to her previous station in front of the hearth. Her sly grin of contentment did catch my eye and my mind knowing that not a good sign.
I glanced at the cottage door, not missing her body tensing. I knew her wily ways. Often had there been times I had to negotiate a peace treaty on behalf of Marselina’s kleptomaniac habits. I walked nonchalantly to the door, acting as innocent as had she upon re-entry.
I opened the door, almost speechless at the art she had created upon the stoop. It was as if she had taken great pain to create the visage. “Marselina, I do not know whether to be angry or reward you!”
I carefully retrieved the stolen golden moments and put the bounty away for safe keeping, glad the fragile items were unscathed. This would stead good when the mistress of said beauties came a-knocking.
I reached in the cabinet for the biscuits as the collie cheerfully bounced forth as if due retribution. “Marselina, what shall I ever do with you? Never has anyone suffered such with a kleptomaniac, artistic Lassie!”

©Moon_Magick 2008

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The Last Time.

Still they lie on the living room floor,
My sexy heels and golden shawl,
We stood in that spot and started to kiss,
Lost in the moment,my shawl softly slipped,
The kiss of a lifetime, you blew me away,
Our passion was urgent, we just couldn’t wait,
Your strong loving arms kept drawing me in,
Then you lifted me up and my shoes left my skin,
We made passionate love as the sun gently set
T’was the last time i saw you but i’ll never forget.

Louise Morgan (deva64)

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Goldie

Ellen could no longer remember the name she had dreamed up for herself. It might have been Eva, it might have been Goldie or it might have been Margarita. Nor could she picture the face of the man she followed to the big city. Did he have dark hair? She remembered that he did have fine hands. Sometimes, if she tried, she could remember the laughter of the crowds, the awed hush that would fall over the audience as the curtain rose and the smell of greasepaint.

She remembered those shoes. How they hurt by the end of the night but they made her feel like the star she was going to be. They were glamour. They were class. She only tripped once. While she was walking across the stage on her last night in that tiny, run-down shack of a theatre she stumbled and fell into the pit. It was so long ago. Ellen thinks one of the trumpet players helped her up, but it could have been the bassist. Even those memories are fading now, as she sits with the other once-golden stars, waiting to shine for one last time. Did she ever make it to the big theatre down the street? Did she have her name in the golden lights, that name she dreamed up will looking at the stars?

by Murple

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