Apologia Pro Absencia Mia - I have missed you so.

Dearest Followers.

A Horrible Valentine's Day to you all.

It is I ... the beautiful and delightful Eddie Stardust, calling to you, once more, from beyond the reaches of Undeath. 

It has been four long years and two short days, since last you enjoyed the delights of my exquisite prose and my sparkling wit. I am certain that this must have created a most distressing gap in your lives but, forsooth, it was impossible for me to remedy this most foul and heinous situation.

Alas, would that I might have found a way to communicate with you, prior to now but following on from the unfortunate night of absinthe related indulgence, in which I used the cranial cavity of my ghostwriter Yorrick as the vessel for said drinking, I have been ... well ... without a ghostwriter. 

Honestly, dear reader, the wretched wraith wrung his wraithy hands and flounced out of my life. FLOUNCED ... OUT ON ME! This has never happened before. Life, as I knew it, was over. Why would Yorrick leave me? Why? I am such an exquisite specimen of pure beauty. Surely that alone should have convinced him to stay.

In my state of complete wretchedness, I tried, for whole minutes, to court Death's embrace. I even crept into his lap and raised my skirts in a vain attempt to convince him to cradle me in his bony arms and lull me into the Oblivion of which I so ardently dreamt. Sadly, for a gimp vampire such as myself, such releases are denied us.

On another occasion, I tried to trick Death into taking me, by throwing myself at a tree. I thought, in my wisdom that being skewered through the heart by a branch of a pine tree might be sufficient to send me into the Great Beyond. Alas, the tree I threw myself at was a dumped artificial one, left over from Christmas. I was undone, undead and humiliated.  

After that, for the first two years of my absence, I vanished into the ground, soaking up the soil and avoiding all contact with other beings. I craved the blood of the men that passed me, as I lay beneath the soil in a dark corner of a Paris car park but I resisted.

Eventually, I became bored with the loneliness and, when a pesky earthworm attempted to slither into my ear one day, my irritation peaked. I was incandescent with indifference at the misery of existence and decided I must return to my old life and resume my writings. 

Since then, I have been obliged to partake of such indignities as ... Evening Classes and Purchasing a Smart Phone and a Lap Top. I have learned to manage modern technology sufficiently that I am now able to navigate the strands of the World Wide Spider's Web without getting ensnared in its stickiness and I can Twit and Twoo like any good owl might. 

I had hoped, watching people taking selfishes on their smartphones and posting them on Instant Gratification Gram or whatever they call it these days, that I might have been able to indulge in their narcissistic fun and post millions of photographs of myself for the Interweb Spiders to enjoy. Alas, I cannot be photographed. My beauty can only be beheld in the flesh.

And so, it has come to this. I am writing for myself and I must produce my writings without the help of my dear Yorrick, whom I did not realise I stomached quite so well as I do. 

Alas, dear Yorrick. I miss him so.
His skull is broken. Oh! Oh! Oh!
At my hand too. I am undone.
Without Yorrick this isn't fun.

What I wouldn't give to have my old minion drift through my door once more and smite my writings with his inimitable, miserable sarcasm. But it is not to be. Woe is me!

Please, dear reader, try to imagine me now, in my sequin studded smoking jacket, reclining dramatically upon my purple velvet chaise longue and placing the back of my hand against my forehead, while wailing into the bleak nothingness of my Ghostwriterless existence.  

COME BACK, DEAR YORRICK. ALL IS FORGIVEN!

Drinking to Yorrick - an aside.

Alas, poor Yorrick, I knew him well ... well ... alas would be too strong a way of putting it. Yon Yorrick is a villain of the first order of villainy and I hate him ... HATE HIM!

Yorrick, I warned you forsooth, that if thou shouldst persist in thy knavery most foule, I would be obliged to indulge in my most precious fairy dust drink from thy very own cranial cavity.

As you will behold from the photographs above, I acquired your skull and dipped it in chocolate to make you sweeter and then jazzed it up with sparkles to make you cheerier ... of course, it didn't work. I could fill you with the spleens of the happiest smiling happy people in the world and it wouldn't make a world of difference to your sour demeanour! ... That said, I think that my handiwork is befitting, in spite of your vile grumpy tendencies. I always said a bit of sparkle would improve any vampiric fable a million-fold but you would not listen, would you? I am fed up with all those people who say that sparkling is only for morons. I can sparkle and now, so do you!

... Well ... you did anyway!

Let this be a lesson, lest you seek to comment on my attire again! I have shopped in the courts of finery and my taste is beyond all reproach, especially yours, you horrid spectral critic-wannabe. My prestigious memoirs are not your own personal gossip column, you repulsive little scab!

As I implied before, I have supped from the nectar of the Absinthe flower, having poured its gelatinous contents into your cranium. The evidence is clear to behold. 

Yorrick, you always said I was a mug ... I think the hat is on the other head now ... so to speak!

Club Yorrickana, drinks are free ... fun and sunshine ... oh yeah ... bugger ... moonshine ...

Now cease your irritating ramblings or I shall use you as my chamber pot! 

Ha!

My apologies, dear readers, but frankly, this delight was long overdue. Yorrick has much to answer for, I perceive that he hath portrayed me most foully and he hath paid the price ... now Yorrick can speak no more ... nor chew .. nor drink ... nor kiss ... not that anyone would have been desirous of kissing that old mug anyway.

Alas ... I must bid you adieu from this Carribbean pseudo paradise ... The red mist grows thick before me and I must attend an exclusive event this evening.

Be good, my darlings ... I won't!

Yours, 

Eddie.

Eddie and the Lady in Green: Part 1 – The Bottle and the Pub

Eddie and the Green Lady of the Enchanted Forest of Absinthe: The First Rising Star(1)

Eddie and the Lady in Green: Part 1 – The Bottle and the Pub

It was a dark and(2) star filled night(3). Well, how could it not be? I, of course, filled the obsidian black haze with a blaze of triumphant glory, a comet streaking across the sky(4). But then again, the majesty of the forests offered the perfect backdrop, a magnificent stage, a colourless hue of whirling… (5)

*The bottle looked back at me.*

‘Twas true. The bottle was staring back at me, with a vicious glint in its one good eye. I knew what I was seeking. Her: Ma Belle. I had made the worst mistake of my unlife (6) and now I must pay the price. Even if I could find her, there wasn’t the slenderest hope that she would want to love me like she once loved to love me after I had loved her sister like she had once loved me and then eaten her soul. (7)

Oh Abi… Gabi. How does my soulless void long for you? Both of you. (8) Two beautiful sisters, one lost without the other. How would Christmas go? Two empty seats… mine and hers. This wouldn’t ever do. I needed a drink. I had to make things right. (9)

That taste. It was like the elixir of the gods. Better than my own blood. The ichor of life. The green spangly magical, sparkling nectar that made purple sound like orange and made turquoise smell like finest beige. I wanted to snort nuts. Ground almonds mixed with tea so green it made Envy lilac with yellow jealousy. I asked the barkeep for some but he assured me that such heady drugs were not within his licensing remit. Shit. I was stuck with the dried, chopped tarragon again. I remembered my promise from the last time: tree stumps should never be barkeeps and taverns must never be manned by gnome-eating mushrooms that grew below the roots of Sanity River. (10)

I was wasted. Now I remembered why I had loved dear Abi Absinthe as dearly as I had loved dear Abi Absinthe, which was quite a lot actually. She turned my world green and my legs upside down. She was the asylum I wandered into, the glassy walled prison, the sliding escape, as everything poured out, washing away in a wave of tidal green…

I still remembered Abi’s green shiny face staring at me like some demented oompa loompa escaped from the chocolate factory of my mind (11). I recall with emerald clarity the first grassy words that fell from her peppermint tongue (My, she was minty with a hint of aniseed … I wonder if she had been contaminated with the rancid remnants of a glass of crème de menthe!) Those first words have haunted me every day of my not life. They haunt me still. I am so haunted I think I know who I’m gunna call … girl.

My head hurts.

Those words that haunted me so (12) profoundly that I can still remember it, even now. (13) Do you want to hear what she said? (14)

“Oh dear, poor little mite. You do look sorry for yourself sitting there, staring through leaf tinted spectacles at the world.”

I looked up. Without the absinthe bottle as a filter, she was a much more normal colour and her face was face shaped. Her eyes were as green as the sumptuous liquor though … greener. But her wings were still the same. Sparkling, translucent webbing like that big, glowing silver sun behind her, throwing rainbows off in all directions. (15)

The mirror ball shone through my absinthe-induced trance, shaking me back to a semblance of reality … bastard. I gazed into its glittering eyes. It made me see spots for a while but eventually I forgot to blink and I was drawn into its soul … or did it draw my soul into it? I can’t remember.

All I know is that the next thing I knew, I awoke in a strange bed and I had no idea how I got there. (16)

My fingers crept along my face as my eyes creaked open. Fuck. Shit. Damn. Fuck. Fuck cakes. My skin creaked, I could feel… wrinkles! What had happened to my perfect complexion? (17)

Igor's Comments:

 

(1) I don’t care, Stardust. I can’t tolerate your stupidity. As your ghostwriter, I am exercising my powers as ‘editor’. We’re changing the title.

(2) No, just no.

(3) Moron.

(4) Streaking? Ugh. The only streaks you ever produce are in your pants, you vile creature, you pustule of rancid filth.

(5) You were staring into your absinthe bottle. This ‘poetry’ of yours has to stop. I’m removing this section. See: *edit*.

(6) Your entire unlife has been one long and sodding painful mistake. When will it end? You can’t go on like this, Stardust. You must put an end to the madness before it’s too late. I only say this because I care, dearest Eddie – I care deeply … FOR MY OWN FUCKING SANITY!!!

(7) You mean your ‘ménage à trois’ fantasy, or your appalling grammar?

(8) Both of them? Really? I’m pretty certain that in your last post, you wanted Abi and you regretted viciously slaying her sister Gabi, only once you knew that she was your only link to your beloved. Give up the bullshit, Stardust … or if you can’t, at least read your own past work to keep your story a bit consistent. Oh, I despair! *raises hand to brow in mock agony.*

(9) Doesn’t sound like you. Are you sick? Should I call an evil doctor out to your evil petting zoo to take your temperature in that … method you so enjoy?

(10) What?

(11) I’m astounded, Stardust … that metaphor was dangerously close to being … dare I say it? … O … o … original? *faints*

(12) GET ON WITH IT!

(13) Stardust, do you realise that you’re only describing the memory of being off your tits on Absinthe? You aren’t actually pissed now, so stop writing as if you are. Take off your diva pants and get back in the real world.

(14) Please, I am just dying as I sit on the edge of my seat getting my knickers in a twist. Tell me … I beg you … GET ON WITH IT! Some of your readers have lives to live.

(15) Why do you think something as mundane as a mirror ball deserves such a hyperbolic metaphor? It’s only a light effect tool, after all.

(16) It amazes me that ‘bed’ isn’t a euphemism for ‘gutter’; you’re actually being literal.

(17) That’s it. I’m calling it. New drinking game readers: one shot for each time the words ‘rancid’, ‘green’, ‘god’ and a failed metaphor or cliché are used by any persons involved in this preposterous excuse for a literary phenomenon. Double shot if the metaphor actually works.

Moulin Jewels (part 3)

When last we met, dear readers, my fangs were about to penetrate the jugular vein of a … let's call him a … janitor, in the Moulin Rouge. So let us return to that blissful moment. Ooh … makes me hungry just thinking about it.(1)

***

An eternity passed.(2) Exquisite dreams flowed through my veins. Shadows of memories … his … mine … blurred into a melange of moments until I knew his every dark secret.

I found myself exposed to voluptuous moments with gaudy, brassy ladies of the night, which blurred into images of haggard, chubby women with five o'clock shadows prickling his chin. A blonde lady, slight, fragile, sliced through the throat by his vile, murderous hands. As his evil revealed itself, my hunger grew.(3) His blood was intoxicating: dark, rich and spiced by his misdeeds. My senses became heightened as his wicked life and soul(4) flowed into my body. My lips caressed his skin and my tongue lapped hungrily as my teeth ripped deeper into his being. As his body weakened, his heart gave up its final secret - the most disturbing sight of all.(5) My Gabrielle, her eyes closed, her lips slightly parted, seemingly in ecstasy. I had seen enough. Jealousy bit into me like a rabid dog. Savagely, my jaws snapped closed like a mousetrap and his worthless, loathsome corpse sagged in my arms. Disgusted, I threw him onto the ground.(6)

Gabrielle. I stared at the lifeless corpse, its empty eyes stared back. I hated her for that, hated myself. Patience. I had to be patient. She would be mine soon enough. I just had to wait–

And then I saw her. My Gabrielle. I would impress her. Gracefully, my arm extended, the light rebounding off perfection in all its toned glory. I was a god.(7) My legs were divine. The paragon of – how dare she look away?! That sassy–

Raising an unimpressed eyebrow, I stared after her. Her cherry red corset and voluminous skirt accentuated her perfect curves and complemented her milky white skin. She was exquisite. I watched as she strutted, oozing confidence, in the direction of the stage. Had she even noticed me? Surprised at my sudden shyness, I shook myself. Come on Eddie, my snarling subconscious growled at me.(8) Eventually, I would ensnare her in my web of love. Eventually, she would regret her foolish decision to walk away from me. She would pay with her heart and her soul. Eventually.

“Stardust!” a sharp, arrogant voice shocked me back into the room. Beaugarçon. I sneered to myself, before turning to face him. What did he want? I turned to face him, forcing a façade of a smile onto my face. He looked angry.

“Ah, Monsieur!” I beamed. “How are you?”

“Stardust, get your gorgeous ass onto that stage,” he growled, spanking my behind. I grimaced on the inside as something within me stirred, but my face was a picture of seduction.

“Do that again, you naughty boy,” I purred, longing to tear his throat out. Visions of crimson spraying into my mouth left me shivering. Glancing down, I could see I had awoken something in him. I raised a cheeky eyebrow and strutted off, wiggling my hips to tempt Beaugarçon in just the same way as my Gabrielle had lured me. He hadn't a hope in hell.

Lights … dazzling wonderful sparkling lights. Beyond them, hidden from my blinded view: my public. They had no idea what awaited them when the music began.

The music began – a slinky, sexy number. I swirled my hips and gazed into the audience, lowering my lengthy lashes, before sashaying across the stage.

A whirling dervish of glitter and satin, I pranced and danced, a pirhouetting pirhana disguised as an angel fish(9), I wowed them, hynotised them, entranced them. Entranced them with my prancey dance, how they would desire my lance(10)… I was a sexy god in a dress.(11) I heard my public sigh and breathe in with shock and anticipation as my lithe and slender form twisted and bent into shapes of wonder: I was a wonder.

Far too soon, it was over. The music ceased and I took up my position at the centre of the stage to take a bow … or on this occasion, to curtsey.

The crowd roared and cheered, applauding me; applauding my fabulousness. I had made my debut and they had loved me. It was as well for them. I beamed before turning sharply and striding from the stage.

Backstage, a familiar and oh so dear face greeted me; and this time, she smiled at me. The fire in her green spread to my loins, quenching and igniting my need to feast. This diva; my rival, my desire. This goddess. Gabrielle.

***

“Je suis Stardust.” I breathed, her scent filling my nostrils, my lips. “Say it again. Tu es...”

A small, almost girlish laugh croaked from her parted mouth, her hand batting mine away as I caught her fingers in my kiss. Her eyes chose not to leave mine, enticing, appraising, wholesome... consuming. As hungry as my own?

“Sweet thing.” She purred, her accent shifting so abruptly the spell was shattered. She had been listening to Sharon! “'ow iz zat, eh monsieur? I can English, oui? And you, you 'ave a voice most magnifique. Mon dieu, zose legs; zose hips. Oh, zose hands, zose dainty fingers, and zat neck; it 'as the swan's envy, non?”

I bit her.

“Oh, you bad boy.” That purr was back, low, angry, and she sank the tips of her teeth along my neck in mimicry; her tongue flicked out. Her eyes widened, her pupils dilating, even as she dragged her canines to my shoulder, then to my corset's frills. She buried her nose in my bosom. Twin droplets of blood trickled down her porcelain neck. Her fingernails tore into my stays, my skin; scarlet ribbons broke against the dank air. “I can be your kitten, oui? Your... tigresse?”(12)

What had possessed me? My fangs had stopped short, merely grazing her. I found myself at a loss for words, my kiss smoothing her blood away. Its taste fanned the wildfires of passion in us both. Her breathing quickened, matching mine.

“Are you a bad-tempered bull, my passionate duck. Coo, coo.” The devilish twinkle in her stare sent shivers down my now-rigid spine.(13)

This time, my teeth pressed deeper; I felt her body heave against mine, her blood surging as her breasts lifted and crushed me. The heat in her rose, mixing with sweat and perfume; I inhaled the taste, that glorious cocktail of salty, coppery lavender-rose.

My arms ensnared her waist; her fingernails clawed, gouging into my back. It was intoxicating. I felt delirious, alive. Her breath was in me, filling my nostrils, my throat. I barely contained my greed; she knew, and pulled back, teasingly. Teasingly! Me! Like a snake, she coiled around me, leaning close, withdrawing, and finally, striking. Her nails bit deep, piercing, stabbing; her foot gliding against my calf. Our dance effortlessly surpassed my debut; our shameless audience of two. It was sordid ecstasy; that dirty, grimy 'nightclub encounter', a tryst behind the curtains, a...

She purred for me. Purred my name. In the masculine. For a moment, I remembered what it was to be mortal again. Her tongue traced my jugular; her hand crept up my thighs and squeezed; even as my eyes rolled back, she seized me, squeezed me. It was like a song. Then her hand found her way inside, beneath my skirts, between my...

“Your derrière, she is handsome, non? You like this, oui?” That smile was wicked; self assured, faux-innocent, a pretty little... I moaned. Me! I, the greatest –- I could not repress myself. Her fingernails gripping me, her legs coiling as she hoisted herself up and ground her hips to mine. Her guiding hand, the press of her through her most intimate garments, her own skirts lifted. She leaned in and took my earlobe between her teeth. “Is this what you wanted, mon chat? I can always tell the princesses from the queens.” I could no longer formulate words. “Let me crown you; my empress of swans, you soar over ze ungainly geese.”

“Ough...”

“Oui, like that. Oh oui. Oui mon chat, oh, oh, oui. Ride higher, ascend with moi. My dark panther-”

It was an act, too heavily dramatised; it was filthy. It was everything I wanted. More. Did she know what I was? What I really was? My heart stopped; I felt faint. This song, our song: this ballad of rearing swans. The climax would end in death, throes beyond measure. Her lips creased; she knew, she had to. My feral instincts warred with the promise of the next time; a time that could never be. How could I be so short-sighted?

“Oh mon dieu. My Stardust. Tu es- Oui … you remind me of my sister, my Abi.”(14)

She had to go there. Why did she have to go there? This was not part of our dance; our song had no room for another. Did she not understand what happened to men who were compared to their lover's sister, during the act of love?(15) Was she stupid? No, she was trying to arouse jealousy within me. Inadequate? Moi? Jamais! I sealed her mouth with mine; nothing, not even her, would ruin my moment.

She was mine. But was I hers? I had what I wanted. I desired her; now the urge to consume her consumed me. I threw her down; she landed with a low cry. Not of pain or fear, but of joy; her fishnets parted, her thighs inviting me to tear apart their satin prison. Her toes curled, those slender feet reaching to ensnare my neck. Her fingers tore at my neckline. My hands seized hers wrists. The smut that this place breathed was infectious. Now she would pay. Not as a woman; for calling me out, I-

She did not give me the chance, but drew me down. Crotchless beneath that flap. My mind was an open book; I could not accept it. My teeth bit into her thigh, her belly. Her leg lifted and as I made her my own, her right hand thrust mine inside her, and her left forced my teeth into her artery. My vision descended to the scarlet haze.

I screamed in anguish, distant to my own ears as I slowly came, then came to and stared down; as the light began to fade from her eyes, she wore a small, triumphant smile. She had won. Questions coursed through my mind. Somehow, I had lost. I had lost her, and more.

Her hand sank to her sumptuous breast.

This theatre would burn. I would make a pyre the likes of which none had seen since 1666.

As I thought about seeking matches, I stopped for a moment and watched her body wilting under the hand of Death. I wanted to puke. At the final, fatal moment, she had opened her mind to me and I had seen something, something that left me hollow. What I had just done?

Green, swirling like liquid, filled with tiny bubbles. A beautiful young lady – her emerald dress and necklace adorning a figure of such exquisite beauty that my breath caught in my throat. Her slight features and alabaster skin were pure and unmarked. She was familiar to me but from where?

Then the memory of a single word came to me. Abi. ABI! Gabrielle's sister(16) was Ma Belle – how could I have forgotten her: my one true love, the light of my life, the wonder in my wonderful? What had I done? Ma Belle had been banished from me for more years than I could count(17) and I had feared I might never find her, indeed, I had long since been deprived of her memory by some most unwelcome magic. Having remembered my one true love, I could think of nothing else. I had to find her. I had to. The only trouble was that I had eaten the one person who could have helped me to find her. Worse still I had just … with her sister …death would be a merciful blessing if she found out.

Oh God I was distraught. As I screamed Ma Belle's name aloud, I covered my eyes with one hand and stretched my arm out into the middle distance.

It was too late. I couldn't raise her to our ranks. Even if drained the blood from the entire audience and emptied it from my own veins into her husk, it wouldn't be enough. She was... gone. I stared as the simile of Ma Belle's face cracked into a grotesque grin. There was nothing for it: I had to destroy all evidence.(18)

Igor's footnotes:

(1) You glutton. Your insatiable diet of blood is enough to turn the appetite of anyone who is fool enough to read this drivel.

(2) Again with the... why do I bother? I can correct only so much! You poetry and theatrics are misplaced, overused, and as boorish as you. No ghost writer should be forced to suffer this much! And to think, it only gets worse.
(3) See point 1.

(4) Uh huh. Soul eater? Really? Are we to believe you keep a cache in that empty heart of yours? 'Inspiration' for your absurd personas? I suppose you think a silent audience is an audience that approves? That might explain your misplaced confidence regarding the 'popularity' of your ravings.
(5) There are far, far more disturbing sights. For example, the sight of your pallid gormless vampire countenance could turn the bravest of knights to jelly – and not in the way you think. What you do with “Royal Jelly” is beyond description.
(6) And no doubt, after gorging on him, you probably violated his still-warm body, you disgusting vermin.
(7)What is your obsession with being a god? You, my dear nemesis of the mind, are as distant from godliness as the necrotising bacteria which dwell in the depths of your festering armpit, you animated corpse.

(8) Subconscious? You? I can only assume you are referring to the 'voices' in your head. Voices you made up; who else could you narrate to and be congratulated by? You make me sick to my stomach.
(9) Seriously, I wish you would allow me to teach you about metaphors. The idea is to use descriptions that actually make the point you are aiming for. Disguising a pirhana as an angel fish is like comparing a pirhana to a pirhana, you tasteless cockwomble! They're both as bitey and as vicious as you.

(10) Seriously? A lance? You have a very skewed concept of length. Your readers should be thankful you decided a 'unicorn horn' lacked impact.

(11) See point (8)

(12) I'm going to be sick. You disgust me.

(13) Clichés you moronic slab of dried vomit. If I have told you once, I've told you a thousand times, clichés do not make good reading. (*He won't understand that one, readers!*)

(14) Gabi and Abi – oh how very original. *rolls eyes*.

(15) You have never committed an act of love in all your many days on this earth, you narcissistic bastard. I think what you're unsuccessfully euphemising, is an unadulterated act of fucking.
(16) How in the - not even your demented mind can miss the impossibility of this, you witless numpty. According to your drivellings, that green harpy you drool over is older than you are. How can you fail to recognise this paradox? You aren't even making any semblance of sense, or is this your idiotic idea of a metaphor?

(17) See point (13)

(18) You moronic oaf. If you had a single ounce of grey matter between those thick ears of yours, you would have scrapped this entire segment. If we are following your inane narrative, that imaginary green witch of yours can read, which is more than I can say for you.



---

A Christmas Shanty by ye olde Willy Dickespeare

Dear readers.

Behold, the dreadful mess, which ensues when I dare take a brief respite from my ghost writing duties, to recover from the writer's cramp, induced by NaNoWriMo. These are the words of Eddie Stardust himself. You have been warned.

A Christmas Shanty

By ye olde Willy Dickespeare (aka the magnificent Eddie Stardust)

Christmas Eve

'Twas the night afore the Mass o' the Christ when all through ye olde house,

not a Yorrick was stirring, he was stuffing a grouse.

Mama's stockings were hung on the airer with care.

Not for her, being dead, she was no longer there.

As for Yorrick, the grump, he awaited with glee,

The moment to pull mama's stockings to his knee.

You are the worst kind of moron, Stardust. How does this awfully written piece reflect either of your literary heroes? You will never be a troubadour or a bard. Give it up. It's already too late. Furthermore, I'm not Yorrick. I'm Igor. IGOOOOOR!

Methought I heard a voice cry “I'm Igor! I'm really sore! Don't write anymore.”

Stardust doth murder writing, therefore Dickespeare shall write some more! Yorrick shall sleep no more!

Yorrick, Yoooooorrick. Thy stocking doth lie empty, bereft as thy soul.

How shall we compare thee? To a midwinter night's dream. Thou art more grumpy and more grim than any I have met. Torrid gales doth shake the rancid leaves of death from thy branches but yet thou remainest, winding me the hell up.

That's right, Stardust, take the sonnet and destroy it, why don't you?

Just write my damned memoirs Yorrick, you snivelling dimwit. I am the diva, not you.

Nay, a nightmare, forsooth! Thou art a miser, Yorrick. Alas, I knew you at all. That I shall yet sup on the green liqueur from thy cranial cavity is my one solace. That sweet sweet nectar, tainted with thy brains. Thy pantry standeth stocked with the most rancid of stores: bitterness, bile – a vile draught to swallow! Thy breast's milk is tainted, you cow. Hast thou no charity for a poor and weak disco gimp vampire? Thy heart is as empty as thy body.

But I digress.

Yorrick standeth in the graveyard, looking disgruntled, wishing he could join the ranks of the gruntled … if that's even a word. (Yorrick, get on it!) It matters not. Yorrick will never be worthy of gruntling, therefore the point is moot.

He is approached by his downtrodden employee (NOTE TO SELF: Clearly this is a work of fiction – Yorrick will never be the employer), Edward Gimlet (Hamlet, you moron!)

“Mr Yorrick, work is over. My son little Gimlette wishes a word with you,” sayeth the tragic Edward.

“Please, Sir, spareth me a bite to eat. Spare some bread?” addeth little Gimlette, who dreams only of tinsel and fairy dust, he's a bit fabulous, you see, like his old man.

“Bread?” Yorrick yelleth, indignant rage furrowing his brow. “Bread? Thou shalt rob an old git of his only sustenance? Thou art a villain, Little Gimlette and your father, well, he be fired. Let me fetch the matches.”

“Thy heart is as empty as my stomach, thou plain dealing villain, thou rancid scoundrel. I will leave you now, and henceforth, thou shalt forever walk this earth, holding thy pieces, as thy dead yet living corpse rots around you.” Alas, Little Gimlette's words startled poor Yorrick somewhat. Such words should never have issued from the mouths of babes or urchins.

Later that night in the Hippodrome, Colchester ...

“When shall we three meet again?” Les Fates of Christmas trois croon.

“In snow shower, fog or just in pain?” Fate 1 – the Fate of Christmas past giggles into her eggnog and babycham cocktail.

“When the weekly shoppe is done.” Fate 2 – the Fate of Essex Christmas Present drools.

“When the Lotto's lost and won,” Fate 3 – the Fate of Christmas Riches Yet to Come, heavily pregnant and even more heavily made up, whines, examining her lottery tickets. “That will be ere the dreadful pun.” Fate 3 goes on.

“Where the place?” Fate 1 cries out

“Ow 'baat in Lakeside?” Fate 2 whines on.

“There to meet with Yorrick's fate,” Fate 3 jumps up and down with fake excitement.

“I come, dear tanning salon man,”

“Towie calls,”

“Anon”

“Yorrick, oh Yorrick, wherefore art thou Yorrick? Awaken thou thy broken body. Haunt not the season to be merry. Make a cake like Mary Berry, Thou never shalt bestow thy cherry. Really, thou art far too hairy.”

“Maybe have some coal instead, lest Eddie drinketh from thy head.

Blah blah blah, Yorrick dies.

The end.

... Ho ho ho!

And so you see, poor, long suffering readers, exactly why Stardust needs my services. His writings truly are the ramblings of an insane person. Be grateful. Should I depart this immortal coil, this is what you would be stuck with.

Merry Christmas. 

Moulin Jewels (part 2)

Previously, on 'The Epilogue of Eddie Stardust' …

Eddie, stop this ridiculous Americanisation of your story. The reader can scroll back to the previous post if they wish to know what happened before, although why they would is beyond me. Honestly I despair. - IGOR

* * *

I turned the corner, anticipation boiling within me. From the way men were winking at me, I couldn't lose(1). A few more steps and there she stood; my lover, my mistress – The Moulin Rouge. I passed through the modern doors with a tinge of disappointment. The stunning art nouveau entrance I remembered from my warm life was long gone, replaced in the wake of some new trend or other. I remained undeterred. My heels clicked as I swished my hips, pouting as I approached the box office.

“I wish to converse with the manager,” I breathed, my husky voice making the plain Jane behind the counter shudder. I was irresistible. I knew it. She knew it and soon, the world would know it(2). My name would be in lights, my body would sparkle(3) and I would be the burlesque can can dancer I had always dreamed I could be.

But first, I had to win over the boss. That wouldn't be hard, although he might be by the time I was done with him.

A hinge creaked. A door slammed.

“Thierry Beaugarçon.” a delicious voice announced. I turned around. Thierry Beaugarçon. A wonderful name. It described him so well with his neat, honey coloured ponytail, tight body and chiselled good looks.

“Edwina,” I fluttered my false eyelashes flirtatiously.

“And what can I do for you, Edwina?” The sound of his mouth forming my name told me what I needed to know. I had entranced him. I just needed to seal the deal – whatever it took.

* * *

It didn’t take us long. My body twinkled under the dim light(4). We were behind his desk, my hands at his belt. My knees rubbed against the rough carpet, but it didn’t matter. He tried to assure me that he wasn’t like this, that this wasn’t who he was. I hushed him and leant in for a kiss. It pleased me to see his eyes roll back, to have him in thrall. Spasms racked him and my hold over him increased. I wove my spell delicately, with nibbles and kisses, an artist’s brushstroke, broad, narrow. His firm hands gripped my cheeks. I didn’t mind. His thick fingers around my jaw only heightened my sense of achievement.

“Let me show you what I can do.” I told him. Hot, salty, moisture. I licked my lips. He shuddered again and I rose unerringly(5). With a backwards wink, I sauntered out of the office. The stage was mine. His eyes never left my hips. Thierry Beaugarçon. My manager. My smile drew stares. Private, sly, they only suspected. I purred to the plain Jane, hoping for a more private audience. I was getting thirsty again but first, there were more important things to attend to.

A few moments later, clutching the papers Beaugarçon had provided, I located the stage door. It was not what I had expected. Damned romanticism. The nasty beige formica door was set into a wooden door frame, from which chunks of blood red gloss paint had been chipped, revealing layers of lurid blue beneath. A horrible sign was screwed to the door bearing the word “Stage entrance” in a font which surely died along with the sixties. I pushed the door open, recoiling as a decade of finger grease polluted my fine skin. I needed to wash my hands. Come to think of it, I needed to clean my teeth as well.

Beyond the door, I nearly vomited. The door opened to the hallway which time forgot. Purple and orange paisley adorned the walls and crimson was just visible beneath a thick layer of grime(6).

“Entrez!” a husky female voice summoned me. Something stirred in my loins(7). The voice emanated from the second door way on the left. I made my way to see what the voice belonged to.

* * *

Pink leotard. Body glitter. I sparkled like dew in the morn sun. Eyeliner. I emerged from the dressing room with a hesitant step. Then I straightened. My hair was curled, honey blonde. Try outs were about to begin. I drew in a deep breath. The stage awaited.

I leapt onto it. There were others, boys and girls both, but they were broken ravens to my swan. Stars of the show, nevermore(8)! I twirled and I dipped; I span and I shone. My leg long, my foot arched, I pivoted. I was a dancing queen. There was no one there but me(9).

The dances flickered.

Everything went black.

* * *

Murmurs … Smudgy colours. Greens, pinks, forms moving. Focus returned slowly like steam clearing from a mirror. I saw her face – her beautiful face.

Love. Was it? It had been so long since love had clawed at my heart with its poisonous talons. I had long since locked it in the closet of my previous, human life. Did I love her? I thought so. Sapphires sparkled beneath her full eyelashes. Glitter adorned her every feature and her fiery red hair burned a permanent mark into my heart.

“Mon Cher?” her velvety voice caressed my ears. “I am so sorry.” Her French Accent stirred my senses. Had I been alive, I would have had an embarrassing situation to deal with. “Antoine did not mean to 'it you on ze 'ed. Are you ok?” I could not speak. I was under her spell. Clichés were running through my mind on an imaginary conveyor belt(10). I couldn't help it. I stared, all thoughts of glitter, sparkles and dancing deserting me(11).

Finally, my stubborn mouth caught up with my brain. “I am tres bien, Mademoiselle. Might I ask, what is your name?”

A quizzical expression and an eyebrow twitch. “Gabrielle.”

“I am Edwina.” I responded. Edwina. The name stuck in my throat. She smiled.

My thoughts ran amok. Her lips moved as she pronounced each syllable. My name sounded like liquid silk from her mouth. Even in undeath, my own was dry. My heart lurched. Her slyness left me breathless. I wasn’t sure what it was about her. Her step as she trod towards me, her legs, her hips, her belly, her bust, her shoulders, her neck, her chin, her… her mouth halted a hairsbreadth from my own. Maybe she reminded me of … her … I saw myself reflected back in her endless blue. I glimpsed her soul.

I gasped.

Her fingers had coiled around me and her hold made me throb. Fresh blood in my system coursed to all the wrong places(12).

She repeated my name and that coy, slightly arched brow made me whimper. She inched closer. I couldn’t scurry back, only forwards. Her voice in my ear was ecstasy; my name held me enthralled.

“Gabrielle.” My voice was a croak, a sigh. My mind added: an angel. An angel of fire. Sapphire fire(13). Could I be in paradise? What passed for paradise in this unending mortal hell?

She broke away with an effortless turn and an even more effortless shrug. Her fine shoulders were glorious to behold. Living art, flawless and perfect in the very best way. The light, her light… how had she known? I followed her unthinkingly. I lost all spatial awareness, all my senses convulsing as they fused to a single point: her. I heard the gentle, steady pulse of her blood, the roar of my own, siphoned from my victims. She was everything a woman could be. A diva, a goddess… she would be mine. My Gabrielle.

Without warning, my reverie was interrupted. With fearsome purpose driving her every perfect, sexy movement. Gabrielle disappeared behind a heavy velvet curtain. Cautiously, I approached the soft fabric, reaching out my hand to reveal what lay on the other side.

“Oi! What you doin?” a broad London accent shocked me. Shaking, I dropped the curtain and span, cursing whoever had interrupted me. “There's a show on. Don't touch the flamin' curtains. Audience'll see yer. Boss'll kill yer.”

Mixed emotions created a muddy well in the pit of my stomach. Excitement at discovering my stage pooled soft and sticky, creating a melange à trois(14) with heady lust for Gabrielle and sticky, black anger for the savage voiced idiot that had ruined my moment. I would bide my time. Everything I desired would be mine. If the staff of the Moulin Rouge wished to remain warm, they would co-operate. Something told me that I would not be hungry for a long time.

I walked away, pouting at my new best enemy. He was young, foolish. Probably had dreams of grandeur. The broom in his hand told me that success, for him, was a long way off. I smirked and turned on my heel, making my way back to the dressing room to await my first rehearsal.

He followed me. To shoo me off, or just to make sure I was far from the stage I wasn’t sure. It was his hide as much as mine if he allowed someone to slip beneath the curtain. I thought of my sapphire fire, my Gabrielle. Mere seconds and I longed for her; time, this strange concept, seconds as dewdrops in the sun, days as a blink and moments immortal. I turned and smiled at him. He should have stepped back; instead, he stepped forwards, startled, but glaring. I smiled and he smiled back unwillingly. Oh, how unwillingly. Mine was a smile of apology, of understanding… his mirroring mine. My raised eyebrow looked beyond him, to the dressing room on side. Everyone was too concerned with the stage: getting there, being there, or stopping others from getting there. My dream, his passion, his dream, my passion. It didn’t matter what he thought, how he felt; he was drawn to me. Me, the unknown star yet to rise in this night’s sky. My hand rested on his broom; his tightened, then lowered. Without bothering to look, I pivoted, knowing he followed…

The immortal moment.

(1) You are such an arrogant tosspot. What makes you think you're God's gift to men … women … trolls … dragons … pixies, swamp donkeys and so on? As if you'd really convince anyone you're a female with that seven o'clock shadow?

(2) Seriously? See (1)

(3) You and your bloody sequins. Gah!

(4) Shall I get you a unicorn to go with that, Princess Twinkle Toes.

(5) Why do you insist on making me put my name to this filth? You disgust me. The only hot, salty moisture this image draws from me are tears, rolling down the inside of my eyes.

(6) What is perverse obsession with casting aspersions on the interior décor of my home, by including it in your 'memoirs'? I hate you. See (1).

(7) Early stages of syphilis? Parasites?

(8) Really?

(9) Yeah? What about 'her'? Still lost in the bottom a bottle?

(10) Cliches? You? Never...

(11) Yeah? For how long?

(12) Surely not your brain?

(13) And he's back. See (11)

(14) A fruit salad?