Lydia

A tongue-in-cheeky tale that I wrote about love, revenge, and unexpected endings.

Lydia’s taste in men was disastrous, but when she fell in love with Smokey, an even-tempered ex (so he says) Hell’s Angel, her mother felt it was time to save Lydia from herself. Gathering family members under her ample wing, Lydia’s mother fabricated a rumor that an attractive, very pregnant blonde woman was frequently seen in Smokey’s company. The family relayed false reports to a tearful Lydia, and while it was true they lied to her, these God-fearing Irish Catholics repeated their base deceits with clear consciences because they truly felt they held Lydia’s best interests at heart.

Smokey’s insistence that her family was lying shocked the pretty, but gullible, Lydia. And while she forgave Smokey for operating a drug lab because he was saving for a down payment on a house, when he wouldn’t (or couldn’t) reveal the identity of the pregnant blonde, she ended their relationship in a flood of tears.

Smokey was angered and deeply hurt by the breakup, feelings that quickened a few months later when he discovered Lydia was engaged. According to an old adage, 'time heals all wounds’. Personally, Smokey preferred ‘all is fair in love and war’, and on the day of Lydia’s wedding, he planned to exact his revenge.

Lydia’s mother was thrilled with her future son-in-law, Jason, whose recent promotion to manager of the local Super Sudsy Car Wash was featured on the back page of the weekly neighborhood newspaper. She was so thrilled, in fact, that she included a copy of the article with the wedding invitation, and a photograph of the lovebirds wearing matching Super Sudsy baseball caps. Jason’s promotion was also mentioned in the engagement notice, along with Lydia’s scholastic achievements–she’d completed a course at the Forever Young Beauty College, which for the pretty, but lazy Lydia, was heralded as a major accomplishment.

The wedding would be held at St. Mary’s, Lydia’s mother decided, and since the church was only three blocks from her home, it seemed reasonable to forego the limousine. In fact, Lydia’s mother felt that the wedding procession could walk back to the house to partake of the buffet and refreshments she would prepare.

In due course the honey-baked ham, cake and flowers were ordered. Lydia purchased a darling, freshly drycleaned wedding dress on eBay, and Jason’s tux and shoes were rented. Everyone was prepared for the Big Day, including Smokey.

It remained a mystery as to why anyone should break into St. Mary’s and steal their entire supply of communion wafers—with the exception of one box—until after the wedding, when a few savvy guests suspected that the remaining wafers were laced with LSD. The priest was the first to partake of the tainted host, and the first to realize that something had gone terribly wrong when the declaration of consent he was reading: "Ego conjungo vos in matrimonium in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti." slipped out of the bible he was holding and spilled like black alphabet soup onto the floor. Crossing himself and mumbling incoherently, he dropped to his knees in front of Lydia and Jason, and commenced to scoop up air and pat it onto the pages. Lydia let out a giggle and glanced at Jason, then slapped her hand over her mouth to stifle the scream that welled up in her throat. When had Jason grown fangs?

Lydia backed away from her betrothed and stumbled off the step. She collapsed in the front pew next to her mother, who was staring so intently at the statue of the Virgin Mother that she failed to notice her daughter’s agitated state. Suddenly, Lydia’s mother pointed a manicured finger at the statue. “She winked at me!” she shrieked, which prompted others to add their voices to a frightened chorus that sounded strangely melodic in Lydia’s ears.

While the priest crawled about the floor gathering missing letters, Lydia’s sister stood in front of a neon-tinged confessional, sobbing and stroking the velvet drapes. Lydia’s mother and maiden aunt searched for an exit and, failing to find a door, roamed the nave together, examining and occasionally nibbling the flower arrangements. A few family members milled through the aisles, rising and sitting in a slow motion version of musical chairs. Others looked on in awe, or collapsed on the floor in gigglefits. Hands fluttered through the air like rubbery streamers, touching walls, statues, each other.

A man wearing a Ronald Reagan mask and carrying a Dukes of Hazard lunchbox walked through a side door. Lydia’s mother spied him as he slipped into the shadows. “I voted for him,” she confided to the maiden aunt, then turned her attention to a particularly tasty looking pink rose.

Lydia sat in the front pew and watched Jason and the best man—or perhaps it was two vampires—arm wrestle on the pulpit. Their wedding wasn’t meant to happen, she realized, a fact that was as clear as the bouquet of cellophane flowers lying at her feet. She sighed and kicked the flowers, and tried to recall exactly why she agreed to marry Jason. As tiny silver bells tinkled in the air above her head, it came to her like a message from God that she didn’t love Jason at all. She had simply rebounded into his arms.

“Smokey...” she whispered. As she said his name, a single tear—the sensation was clear, so crystal clear, it was almost painful—rolled down her cheek. She burst into tears and buried her face in her hands.

The figure in the Ronald Reagan mask hunched behind a column, his shoulders shaking with undisguised mirth as he set the lunchbox on the polished wood floor. Moving quickly, he snapped open the lid and carefully peeled back the lid. He removed one of the several paintballs nestled inside, hefted the wobbly weapon in one hand and peered around the column, fully intending to take aim at the soon-to-be-blushing-red bride. But then the masked figure hesitated. Had Lydia said his name?

Smokey slumped against a wall and peeled the Ronald Reagan mask from his face. Winning back the fair Lydia had not figured in his plans, but when he saw the weeping Lydia, his heart softened. And when the priest crawled past his hiding place, thoughts of revenge were replaced with a considerably more rewarding plan. But did he dare? “Hell, yeah!” he muttered, and slapped the Ronald Reagan mask over his face again.

Smokey walked over and knelt before Lydia. Taking a deep breath, he cupped her hands in his. “It’s Smokey,” he said in a shaky voice. “Will you marry me?”

“I didn’t know you were that old,” wailed the wide-eyed Lydia.

Removing the mask, Smokey repeated the question, to which Lydia said, “Okay, but I better tell Jason I can’t marry him. Vampires give me the creeps.”

“You can tell him later,” Smokey said. He pointed down the aisles. “He’s busy playing musical chairs.”

Lydia and Smokey were married that day, and although no one recalled the ceremony, several people swore Ronald Reagan had made an appearance. “There’s no mistaking that black hair,” Lydia’s mother said, and Smokey agreed. And with Ronald Reagan for an uncle—well, so he said—no one dared question Smokey again.

Fitting in

I imagined the difficulties a vampire might have keeping up with changing fashions.

FITTING IN aka Fashion Victim

Snow drifted into the alleyway where Felicia’s latest victim lay, dusting the cool skin a delicate white. Wiping the blood from her lips, Felicia emerged from the shadows and walked across the street to where Josef leaned against a shop window waiting. Snow clung to his baggy jeans cropped just below the knee. Snow speckled his black socks. Snow all but covered the tan construction boots he was wearing. Felicia frowned at his bare shins as she approached.


“Where did you get those clothes?” She asked. “Aren’t you cold?”

Josef sighed and brushed the snow from his jeans. “Of course I’m cold. You’re cold. We’re dead, remember?”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it. It’s those pants. You look ridiculous.”

Josef bent his knees in a graceful demi plie. As he rose, his right hand fluttered onto his hip. “And what is wrong with this look?”

Felicia rolled her eyes. “Chill with the drama queen routine. You left the Bolshoi years ago.”

“Ah yes, the ballet. I was to be the premier danseur…” A luminescent arm arced through the air until Felicia’s withering stare brought it down. Josef shrugged. “But then I died.”

“Spare me the image of you in a codpiece. Seeing you in that tutu was bad enough,” Felicia’s gaze fell on Josef’s attire, “although it does explain your peculiar fashion sense.”

“How dare you mock me!” Josef launched himself down the sidewalk several paces, then twirled around and daintily pointed a construction boot forward. “I have designed haute couture—”

“Oh right,” Felicia smiled, baring rouged fangs, “for le Maison Impossible, wasn’t it? Hey, didn’t you create a saucy number for Madonna? Now there’s a woman who could wear a codpiece.”

“Bitch fledgling! You have no idea how wearying immortality is.” Josef hitched up his pants and grimaced as they slid back onto his hips the moment he released them. “Pah! Do you think I enjoy dressing like this, you, who hasn’t seen the turn of a single century? Wait a hundred years or so, see how you feel then, dressing like a teenager.”

“Why can’t you like just dress a man,” Felicia offered, “well, like an adult anyway?”

“Stop making make fun of—“

“I’m being serious for once, I mean, does it really matter what people think?”

“Well, no…”

Felicia linked her arm with Josef’s and gave it a gentle tug. Then let’s get you into some decent clothes, okay?

Josef cast her an uncertain smile.

“Okay…but first, I need someone to drink.”

The Cabin Boy and the Opium Clipper

I wrote this tale based upon something I read regarding how one particular opium clipper captain was reputed to ram marauding Chinese pirate junks to prevent from being boarded. This story avenges the pirate who died at his hands.

The Cabin Boy and the Opium Clipper

On an unusually warm morning in the spring of 1843, a young boy from the village of Woosung stood barefoot on the deck of the opium clipper, Sea Cloud. Clutching a parcel containing his few possessions, Chen shuffled uneasily in the growing heat, glancing between at his father and the ship's captain, who were busy discussing his indenture as a cabin boy. Quietly, he slipped into the shade of the ship’s railing where a monkey wearing a red brocade vest and a gold hoop earring lay curled on the bottom of a nearby cage. Chen wondered if it was dead, until a tiny hand with impossibly small fingers jerked up and scratched its furry cheek. Chen looked up smiling and saw his father and the captain exchange a few last words and fewer coins. Like a cloud moving across the sun, his smile faded.

The captain's attention shifted skyward when a boy not much older than Chen, cried out as he struggled to unfurl the t'gallant yard’s heavy canvas. Chen used the distraction to sidle up to his father, who gently but firmly pushed him away. Chen stumbled back and gasped as a heavy hand settled on his shoulder.

"Come this way," a voice directed Chen in perfect Mandarin.

Chen spun around, but the dark-skinned sailor wore a swath of brightly colored cloth wrapped round his head like a bandage. Chen cast a puzzled look at his father, whose disapproving frown turned to thunder.

"What are you waiting for?" His father addressed him in their village dialect then gestured curtly with his chin. "Follow him and be quick about it."

Chen’s father bowed to the captain and murmured assurances that his son was a very hard worker. Without another word or gesture of farewell to his son, he walked down the narrow gangplank.

Chen’s grip on his parcel tightened as his father slipped between the ‘hongs’, whitewashed houses that served as warehouse and home for the foreign devils living there. Down winding lanes, crowing roosters perched atop the villagers' bamboo houses competed with the bustling noise in the open square. Shoppers, beggars and street performers wound their way between colorful booths filled with spices and vegetables, fish and hens, silks and clay cooking pots. Chen thought he glimpsed his father's robe and glistening pigtail, but the figure disappeared without a backward glance.

With a sigh, Chen turned to follow the dark-skinned sailor, who pointed at the monkey's cage as he passed it.

"Bring Honqua with you," he said in a melodic British tongue.

Chen juggled his parcel in one hand as he picked up the cage. "You are British?"

"Not British." Gold teeth flashed as the seaman laughed. "India. I come from the great city of Bombay, which is also to where we are sailing."

They walked along the narrow deck toward a cabin set behind the third, and last, mast. High above their heads, ropes creaked and flexed against the slap of unfurling sails, heralding the clipper's departure. Tar, salt fish and less familiar smells, both sweet and spicy, drifted on the sea air.

Chen skirted around seamen of different nationalities, all bathed in the same pungent sweat, lowering the last crates into the open hold. The monkey chattered as the cage bumped against the railing.

"My name is Chen," the boy offered as they neared the cabin.

"Mister Chen," the golden smile corrected, "I am Mister Ajid."

The dark-skinned man swung open the cabin door and revealed a warren of rooms that branched off a small entryway. Awakened by the swaying cage, the monkey sat up and yawned, revealing two rows of sharp, white teeth. Chittering softly, it grasped a browned piece of fruit from the cage floor and leapt onto the swinging seat to nibble it.

"Don't trust that one," Mister Ajid nodded at the monkey. "Keep your fingers out of his cage, or he'll try to eat them."

Chen sat the cage on the deck, knelt down and regarded the monkey. It returned his scrutiny with dark eyes and a full mouth.

"You will have plenty of time to get used to Honqua," Mister Ajid picked up the cage and stepped into the cabin. Reaching up, he set the cage on a hook near the door. "He's your responsibility."

Mister Ajid walked into the galley and pointed to a narrow room set to one side, which was not much bigger than a cupboard.

"Here is where you sleep," said Mister Ajid. His hand swept across the galley. "And here is where you work."

Chen felt the familiar slip and shudder under his bare feet as the crew of the Sea Cloud weighed anchor and prepared to set sail.

"The boy is accustomed to ships and sailing," his father had assured the captain. "He sailed many times with my eldest son and my brother, his uncle." His father neglected to mention that Chen's brother and uncle were pirates.

As Chen followed Mister Ajid into the galley, he recalled how the opium clipper, Sea Cloud, had rammed his uncle's ship, how his brother and uncle had cried out for mercy, only to hear the captain shout: "Go forward, lads, and if you meet the devil, cut him in two and sail between the pieces!" The opium smuggler's motto; Chen knew it all too well.

The ringing of a bell drew Chen out of his reverie in time to see Mister Ajid step toward the cabin door. "Put away your clothes, Mister Chen. I will return shortly."

Chen gave an obedient nod and walked toward his bunk, but as the cabin door closed, he turned and darted down the passageway, searching from room to room until he located the captain's sleeping quarters. With his heart pounding in his chest, Chen returned to the galley. Moving slower now, he opened the door to his cramped quarters and placed his package on the cot. Small hands, trembling fingers searched through the folded clothes for the knife his father had given him. Quickly now, quickly! Chen retied the knot and placed the bundle under his bunk, then walked into the galley and waited for Mister Ajid to return, and for nightfall, when he would exact revenge for his brother's and uncle's deaths.

Move 'em out. Moving on.

Day Six

Click on truck to view larger image

I'm still trying to shake off this cold, so I didn't get as far as I'd hoped. If you look at yesterday's post, you can see that I've worked around the grill and headlights, started the interior/cab, and pretty much finished the underside of the wheel well. This beauty is so lively with rust that I've had to watch myself, especially when I dab the paintbrush in the burnt sienna (isn't that the yummiest hue?). Point being, if you've ever painted with watercolor, you know how unforgiving some hues are, reds in particular, so I'm proceeding with caution while this cold reigns in my head. I don't want to over saturate the shadows or start blending willy nilly, or I'll end up with mud, if you know what I mean.

Move 'em out. Moving on.

Day Five

Below is a closeup of the section I worked on yesterday. If you compare it to the closeup that I posted yesterday morning, you'll see that I've added several washes of watercolor, which liven up that section. Worth noting are the washes of yellow ochre and payne's gray deepening the hues on the cracked windshield. The hue of the bonnet/hood is also deepened with washes of yellow ochre and olive green, which tones down some of the viridian washes laid down earlier. I've continued to anchor the scene by painting a thin wash of veridian and cobalt blue behind the truck, with spots of veridian and olive green for the leaves.

I'll continue to work on the bonnet/hood today, deepening the values whilst trying to maintain an ethereal air of an old warhorse 'moving on'.

Move 'em out. Moving on.

Day FourClick on photo to view larger image

I've been battling a cold for a few days now, and since certain watercolor hues are tenaciously unforgiving, I decided not to mess about with my emerging warhorse until I felt better.

Today, I'm focusing on the area in the photo below, so you can expect to see this section coming into focus tomorrow.

Move 'em out. Moving on.

Day Three

(figuratively speaking)
Closeup

Today feels like 'Ground Zero', although today the slate is wiped clean in a different way, and I imagine I'm a part of the majority in this country (and likely around the world), as we put our lives on hold to watch history in the making; the heady phenomenon of the Obama inauguration.

And so I continue to paint...as I listen and watch events unfold on this amazing, auspicious day.