The height of the season

“I was a Welsh god back in the day.”

“You don’t have an accent…”

“Neither does Anthony Hopkins; what’s your point?” Julian shrugged and she carried on “Anyway, I was only Welsh back then. I’ve moved on now, so obviously I’ve dropped the accent. Same as the whole horses thing. Though feel free to play that up if you’re trying to recruit any equestrians.”

“So, what kind of goddess are you now?”

“God. Not goddess. I’m only female because I choose to be.” Rhiannon looked wistful “I’m not sure what kind I want to be yet. I don’t think I could be a vengeful god. I think I’m much more on the Jesus end of the scale. I’m all about not being a dick to people so they’re not a dick to you, rather than because of some divine threat hanging over you.”

“Karma?”

“You could call it that. I’d more call it common sense. I’ve always thought sensibility was a much better way to lead rather than fear. People don’t forget sensibility when you’re not around; they can forget fear.”

“Well, you’ve definitely got the look down pat.” Julian nodded in the general direction of her loose white dress and sandals.

“Oh hush, it’s summer.”

That joke you always hear from the shadows

Charlotte had been space-hopping again. She’d been crawling through other people’s walls and enticing them to join her in her little adventure. She’d take them by the hand and pull them towards the wall, stepping through it as if it were nothing but air. Then she’d turn and laugh as she watched them walk straight into the wall as it became corporeal to them again as she let go of their hand. It had been amusing her for a few days now. She’d played the same trick on more than 50 people and it still made her giggle like a schoolgirl. Of course, there were a few who’d ended up with their arms stuck inside the walls, but that was hardly her fault, surely? I mean, it was nature who gave her this power, so the blame must surely lay there. Someone had once twittered on at her about responsibility and suchlike, but that really didn’t seem for her. Maybe when she was older she’d look in on it again and see how it was turning out for other people. She’d let them test it out for her and she’d jump on if the bandwagon got going. She adjusted her dress (stepping through always seemed to ruffle it) and headed off to the house across the road.

-Alice

She could be you

She was the picture of glamour. Her dress was red. The kind of red that just screamed at you. It screamed many things, sex, lust, blood, fame, money, power, it was all there. It fitted her perfectly and moved in that magical way that these dresses do. Her hair was set perfectly. The kind of hairstyle that looks like it fell into place perfectly in just a few minutes, but you know really took hours of careful manipulation. Her sparse jewellery offset every part of her look perfectly. It sparkled in the light. Her bare legs were visible through the slits in her dress. Her thighs were exquisite, her calves covered by her knee-high black leather boots, their stiletto heels clicking as she walked. The white mask she wore around the lower half of her face, covering almost everything below her eyes, simply served to make those eyes even more enigmatic and inviting. Her nails were out of place though. They were red to match her dress, but the varnish looked badly applied. Some of her nails were barely covered and some fingers had drips running down them. It was very red though. Dark and thick. The colour of blood.

-Alice

Have you heard what it says about formal wear?

The mirror’s been lying to me again. It keeps telling me I look a certain way and I know that’s not right. It’s telling me I’ve got short hair and that I’m thin and bony. It keeps insisting that I don’t look good in this long red dress I bought the other day. It keeps insisting that I don’t have curves or flowing hair. I don’t make traffic come to a stand still when I walk down the street. My legs aren’t long and perfectly shaped, perched atop exquisitely high heels. It’s been telling me this for years now. I know it’s lying to me and it seems to be lying to everyone else, because everyone agrees with it. They tell me I’m not a beautiful young woman. They tell me that’s an impossible dream that I should come to terms with somehow. I don’t want to believe them, but they’re so insistent. They just won’t be convinced that this is who I am and that I’m doing this because I need to, not because it’s some perverse desire. But still they keep on at me. They scream in my ear, even when they’re not here. Even when I’m just alone with the mirror. It keeps telling me I’m a boy.

-Alice

I still find it hard to see it cling to you

I saw you yesterday. You were walking along the opposite side of the street from me. I’m not sure if you noticed me. I guess it doesn’t really matter these days. You’d never acknowledge me. You were wearing that green dress again. I remember the day you bought it. I took you to town and showed you shops you hadn’t discovered yet. You fell in love with them. You spent what seemed like hours, pouring over the items they sold. Then you’d find something you liked and disappear into the dressing room. You’d emerge, inspecting the garment as it clung to you. You’d ask my opinion and you’d twirl. You looked beautiful in everything but I tried to be objective. You ended up only buying two dresses. A blue one and the green one. You were so happy that day. The light in your eyes was undeniable. I don’t think I’m conveying this memory well. I doubt I could ever do it justice. I doubt I could ever explain how the sheer happiness of that day will always be with me. And how, whenever I see you in that dress, that happiness is the stabbing pain in my gut that makes me sick

-Alice