Excerpt from my short story:
“A Silly Diamond Queen”
Silly Miriam hikes the slums of San Francisco with her golden-bee Prada heels. The plump woman smiles as her stilettos clash with the concrete floor despite the agony that her feet revel in. Her over-worked soles are tattooed with a dash of purple and pink blisters alongside red bruises. She raises her head gallantly, knowing that her branded shoes will make her bosom larger than a full moon.
With each rhythmic click of the stilettos, her right shoulder dips downward pointing toward the ground. A leopard printed Coco Chanel bag with a chunky silver C in its handle overrides Miriam’s small round body. She lunges and parades marathons of designer fabrics that all the girls back home would be envious of. A wool scarf chokes her delicate neck, a mink coat serves as her bullet vest, and cow leather pants suffocate her elephant thighs. Eighty pounds of black and brown animal corpses lay on her, but despite the August humidity, she boastfully praises her wardrobe without daring to remove a single article of cloth.
A brunette wig made of Mississippi horses lay on her scalp, planted in but suffocating her head with warmth. The fake hat of hair is a survival tool, the sixty-year-old believes time to be a mock. It teases her; time warns that her body will mold with wrinkles and slowly it is fulfilling that promise. Aging hair is one of Miriam’s grand shames. The Hampton native bickers as construction workers pass her holy presence; “those unwealthy fools haven’t drank from life’s goblet,” she thinks to herself as she almost pities them. Before being a foot’s width apart she proudly raises her neck looking west so that the men can smell her sprinkle of Miss Dior fragrance. “Those dogs loved it! Susan would have loved it!”
Susan’s pale skin and delicately sharp freckles spray Miriam with a dose of nostalgia. “Darling, you close your eyes and dream of ponies while Auntie plucks your furry eyebrows.” Poor Miriam remembers her first pageant show as a three-foot princess who had just learned how to multiply by twos and did not know of the Great War. “It hurts, Susan! My feet feel like they’re being poked by a box of pencils,” young Miriam complained as she walked in heels for the first time. “I want to go home!” The girl hated being powdered with white dust and having sharp instruments remove the invisible hairs under her eyebrows.
“You cannot have beauty without pain dear, it’s only necessary darling,” her aunt always said.
“No more thinking about dear Susan, no more!” present Miriam tells herself. She waddles her head and nods vertically to gesture a ferocious “no.” The heels stop clicking; her wobbling legs and thighs lose their motor oil. In anguish, Miriam takes a seat at a green bunk next to a bus post.
The fashonista sits to the rear right of the empty bunk just in case any poor woman would dare sit elbow to elbow with her. Street pigeons decide to visit the empty seats and occupy it for themselves. “Out of here you flying rats! Out! Out! Out! You fiends killed my Aunt Susan,” she shrieks. The grey birds are baffled by the screaming hag and decide to flee. One bold fellow from the flock returns and plant it’s droppings on the sacred Chanel bag. “You little shit!” She raises her index finger and thumb and pretends to shoot the brave pigeon.
She lights a menthol cigarette in hopes that the city bus will arrive shortly after she’s done with it. Susan always told her smoking was classless, but Miriam knew her aunt was a closet chain smoker, hiding the scent of burnt tobacco with cucumber lotion and peppermints.