A short story. Please read author's notes.
"Most beautiful woman who ever sat"
The executioner cast his eyes on the dewy lips of the beautiful Isabella Maria Garcia and at once thought her to be otherworldly. When he saw that she carried a miniature bundle of elaborate books and the precise cuttings of a surreal tailor, he assumed her to be the living sleep of a madman's dream. As he peeled back a thicket of flowers that appeared to grow from the back of her neck, the wood of his axe, dissolved in the palm of his hand. It was then that he touched the pocket of death and fell into a timeless state of visual exhaustion...
It was exactly one year beforehand, that the old, wise king had been merciful and considered the rumours surrounding the artist's muse, to be born out of the loose-lipped tales of sexually inhibited wives of young gentlemen, until he himself grew curious and had her summoned to his chamber...
It was from a reasonable distance he witnessed her stance which held such improbable grace as she passed alongside the exquisite tapestries to the adjacent hall as to bring about the tight stretch of leather that held in place his enormous codpiece. As she drew further towards his majesty, an entire sweaty field of goose pimples, rose from the dormant fathoms of his skin...
"Stop!" he bellowed. "Do not step again, another foot. Turn around now and have your spine face me!"
As Isabella Maria Garcia turned her back on the king, his intense gaze, eyed the full-length mirror that hung from the oak-panelled wall and he stood there, trembling with fury and desire in equal measure. For there now stood the reflection of her most extraordinarily beautiful features, and did, very much indeed, endorse a truth...
"God damn you, Woman! What are you?"
"My Lord. It is true that I hold within me the locks to fit every key, for I am a living picture; created from the memory of my father's broken heart...'
The king's breathing, although still slightly irregular, began to return to its natural rhythm as he drew his gaze over toward the chamber pot.
"You speak in riddles. A sign of the educated..."
Isabella twisted to face the king and asked if she might sit and speak truthfully, half expecting him to deliver further instruction to stay where she was, but he remained silent with a lined expression of intrigue. His eyes, now stained with a white glaze of porcelain, drew a line across the gnarled floorboards and on toward the hem of her invisible skirt...
Having just returned from Paris to see a light show, exhibiting paintings by Gustav Klimt, I was inspired to write this piece.
It's quick! We only ask four questions to new members.
Interested in posting your own writing online? Click here to find out more.
Write a story or poem and submit your work to receive reviews on your writing. Publish short stories on our book writing site and enter the monthly contests. Guaranteed reviews for everything you write and you will be ranked. Information.