Yes...Here We Go Again...

 

 
 

 https://www.usatoday.com/story/life/2021/11/17/frida-kahlo-self-portrait-sells-record-breaking-34-9-million/8648571002/

This pat on the head by the Storytelling Fairies is a bit more subtle, but no less effective. Within hours of editing a Hawthorn Moon chapter titled, Frida Kahlo Red, the national news was letting the world know that one of her self portraits had just been sold for 34 million dollars.

Now, Frida Kahlo, was an arcane choice on the part of the author to begin with, and this reference was written into her manuscript several years ago, long before she became famous in her own right. So, another case of a remarkable occurrence, guided Synchronicity...letting the Hawthorn Moon writing team know that our storytelling efforts are not going unnoticed! 

 

CHAPTER 10 FRIDA KAHLO RED

 

…I walk with pride with a Black girlfriend…

…my mom said not to bring her around.

                                                                  Everclear

 

My lips tasted like sweat, someone else’s. My lower lip had just started bleeding.

“So…you’re a vampire?”

My blood was a healthy red, a spring red, on his face. He picked me up like that last cheerleader launched to the top of a Friday Night Lights pyramid—the one the crowd was waiting for. He held me so tight. I wanted to be broken, shattered on the burnt caramel carpet.

“Do you believe in magic?”

“Are you the magic?”

“Now, that would be you…Miss Moonbright.”

Jupiter—the Prince of Light, that centaur bowing his arrow, galloping with confidence through the Milky Way.

 

Frida Kahlo once said, “Take a lover who looks at you like you might be magic.”

There it was…that feeling, like this moment was all I had ever wanted, or would ever want, and it did not matter because he was fucking everything.

He carefully turned me over and kept repeating, my favorite…my favorite…my favorite. Then, a whispered…love you, as my face buried deep into the hard hotel pillow.

Like all spells of magic and sorcery, they can shatter, like a windshield in a car collision, into shards of jagged daggers, daggers that can damage and deform.

“I am very fond of our relationship, Miss Moonbright,” his words delivered slow and soft, as if he was confessing—not full of the velvety crunch of his day-to-day swagger.

I could not see his face. It was nestled in my hair and looking backwards. Maybe he was kissing me. Fond…that word freaked me into a much-too-easy role.  Fuck Fond…I erupted in my mind, like Joan Crawford in those ‘60’s horror flicks. Did he forget he was dealing with a Warrior?

It felt like I was too drunk on a Chardonnay that had spent much too much time in an oak barrel, it was bubbling up from my stomach and I was going to vomit right there and then on the itchy pretend wool blanket. Fond…a word to describe a favorite cheeky aunt, or a chubby backyard squirrel you see chomping on hazelnuts through your window while you sip that first cup of morning coffee. I almost shouted…you suck, you fucking asshole, but didn’t.

Damn, there I go again, wanting to use four-letter words. At least this time I only thought the F-bomb…really have to cut back on my cursing. Luna would say, it’s just not ladylike—but am I a lady?

Anyway, there it was again…that haunting symbol, this time on the door lock—the Hawthorn Rune sign. The pitted brass seemed to glow. Did it want to help me?

Escape…bust a move and boast a lie.

“Life is too short for bad sex…and I have lots of opportunities,” I hissed, dressing and quickly gathering my things.

I grabbed the door handle, feeling like Sigourney Weaver’s Ripley—strong, fearless, badass. I did not slam the door though, didn’t need to.

Some Broadway show tune was bellowing in the halls of the hotel. Twilight was creeping into the new day and rainbows were already bouncing off the shiny vinyl wallpaper.

Now running, a heroine in my own film noir movie, I collided with a chambermaid. You could hardly see her tiny frame, balancing armfuls of once white sheets. She gave me a quick nod and started stuffing them in a way-too-small garbage hamper.

“Miss, excuse me, but if you’re throwing those out, please let me take them. I can use them for god’s sake!”

Life. Can we make a musical after all?

She was tiny, young, and probably did not speak much English, but someone taking the work burden off of your shoulders is a universal language.

Her lipstick was red—Frida Kahlo red.

She said with crispy, tidy English, “You are welcome to my garbage.”