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  HEIDIHINDACHADWICK: 'THECREATIVEGENIUS'

story
teller.
writer.


Thank you for stopping by.

This is a page devoted to my own personal writing journey, and in particular, this current one in which i am pursuing the possibility of publishing my first novel. I call it 'ze book' for now :-). Here you will find my thoughts and musings on the writer's path, and my creative process. There will also be snippets of stories, and previous tales i would love to share with you.
I write magical realism, adult fairy tales, and irreverent and potent retellings of stories from myth, folklore, and popular culture.

I also write about creativity, life, art, sex and soul over at Medium, a wonderful international forum of storytellers and writers. To read my blog and follow my 'A to Z guide to creative genius' then please click here (this will open up Medium on a new page for your delectation.).

I hope you enjoy what you read. If so, please do leave me a comment, a 'hello', a thought :-).

Appreciation for your interest and attention xxx Heidi Hinda
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Persephone and Hades.

Has there ever been, or will ever be, a greater chess match than that of the tournament known as love?
One carefully considered move after another. One amorous, lustful eye, on one’s opponent. Heightened time and space, all contained and invested, in the challenge of the dual, this dual, as old as time and as vast as space.
A dual of courtship, of desire, and a dual to win the hand, perhaps heart, and most certainly the genital greatness, of the other.

Its story will never get old. For how can it. We have been seeking our love since the day we stumbled and lost it, a day that memory no longer served us with. The day that we were born, to air and earth, to breath and milk, and to the excruciatingly delicate vine called life!

And this game, like the ones you have heard spoken of, as many times as your own battle bloodied heart has beaten, that was taking place right now and that which I will do my finest to narrate, was one of the most epic matches of them all.

Persephone had been minding her own business, exploring the herbs and plants that she had discovered in a valley she had oft been told by her dear mother to steer clear from. Normally a girl of great obedience, she had been feeling wildly and mildly mischievous, ignored the wisdom of her elder, and walked defiantly towards a destiny already laid out for her.

And it was all because of a fruit. Isn’t it always?! A fruit will be the undoing, or perhaps the revealing, of a woman and her innocence!
She had been lured, baited, and seduced, by the dripping red juiced fruit of a new discovery: a pomegranate. A secreted purse, all pink and sealed, but, oh my, what a glorious discovery it bestows. A womb of seeds, glistening and tasty. What was a girl to do?! Well, she did what any with any dose of sanity would do: she tasted the fruit. And how she loved it, gobbling and devouring, un-self-conscious as the violent juices dripped on to her dress. Until she saw him that is. His eyes, all black, red-rimmed, and full of lust.
A nod of the head to follow, and without thought, for rhyme has no reason, she did. Down the rabbit hole, away from the light of spring. Down, down, down, until there was nowhere else to go.
And now she was standing before him.

She wiped her still moist fingers on her white skirts, soiling them immediately pink and flushed.
He was much older than her, though it was difficult to tell how much older in the dim of the dark. She couldn’t quite put her pink stained fingers on it, but there was something most unusual about him. She gave out a little gasp of mirth at this thought, and glanced around her. She was certainly in new and unknown territory and this both frightened and thrilled her in equal measure.

If curiosity killed the cat then something was occurring between her legs. Her pussy twitched, with curiosity yes, but with a trepid excitement too. Was this death? Not yet, not here, she didn’t think so, but what the hell did she know?! Down into the underworld he had taken her, but what this meant she had no idea.

The darkness was soothing. A blinding contrast to the sharp shards of shifting sunlight, the light of the sun and spring sapped scenes that she usually spent her time merrily and lazily skipping around in. Her world was one of freshness and renewal, gleefully coated in youthful innocence of days and moments as yet untainted by life’s cutting severity.
But this black, a blackness deeper and darker than any that she had ever known, was even blacker than what she had even seen behind her closed eyelids. This black had a density, a thickness, and a substance that suggested that it was far from an empty and nihilistic sombre ombre, which her mother Demeter had often warned her of.
There were shades to this black. And shapes. And forms that appeared to be shifting and creeping, shadows surrounding her moving, watching and waiting.
There was a dampness too, accompanied by the sounds of water dripping, a sweat of humidity that permeated the space.
And despite the cold, and it was cold, an icy cold, her skin felt hot and damp with perspiration, and with anticipation.
And her pussy. Well her pussy was wet too. Persephone felt surprised and thrilled by this and placed her feet wider apart on to the cool stone ground, her legs and thighs solid and strong, like the trees that she had known and loved since birth.

Hades watched all of this with a quiet fascination. His right hand stroking his beard, he licked his lips with his thick purple tongue, so that his lips glistened in the darkness. And then he spoke.

Welcome.

In the velvet coating her vision, she could just make out his form. Hades was sat on a raised stone throne, about ten feet in front of her. She could see the moisture on his lips and glint of his dark eyes watching her.

Why am I here? I must go back…up…there I’m guessing?!

Persephone glanced upwards only to be met with an infinite expanse of dark void. She looked at him and cocked her head to one side.

You haven’t done this before have you? Taken a maiden from her garden, tempting her with sweet fruits, bringing her…here?

No. you are the first. And only. It was only ever to be you.

Hmmm. Well. I can see why. Your place isn’t quite…well, the most, inviting, or enticing, to receive visitors now is it? I’m also guessing, well, assuming, that you don’t have many of them now either!?


Persephone snorted and tossed her head back revealing her long white swan like neck. Hades licked his lips again and the hairs on his arms bristled. He smiled and leaned forwards, resting his arms on his thighs so that his hands, with their long tapered fingers, Persephone noted, hung over his knees. His nails, which looked suspiciously like talons, shone with a startling glint, in the darkness.

What are you? You’re not of the human kind that seems clear to me.

Come closer.


Hades patted his thighs and laughed. White pointed teeth flashed momentarily.
Persephone was tempted. But surely this was clearly a ludicrous possibility! Was she really being propositioned by this, this, creature that lived down here in this foul den? But there was something. Something that caused her heart to beat a little faster and her body to become hotter than was expected in such bleak and severe surroundings.
She became quite self-conscious, and shuffled her feet nervously. She suddenly felt shy, and was glad that it was dark as she recognised the flush of her blushing rapidly burn across her face.

Come closer. I want to see you.

Persephone took a deep breath and one step forwards. Then another. She continued carefully until she was stood before him, her breath was fast and her hands were clammy. She wiped them again on her skirt. Hades held out his hand.
It took Persephone a moment to adjust to the fact that this hand, which was stretched out towards her, was completely coated in fur. Dirty brown fur. Long and sinewy, his arm was preposterously formed and of ridiculous length. She glanced up and with a gasp, stepped back.
Hades was not a creature that she was familiar with. Neither a deer nor a bear, a boar nor a panther, not even the elusive tiger or lion.

You’re a beast!

The words flew out of her mouth and she threw up both her hands to cover her folly but it was too late. And she knew it, and dropped her hands by her sides.

Are you going to hurt me?

Now why would I want to do that? I have been waiting for you, watching you for years. Waiting for this day to come. And now you are here. You are here.


Persephone, if disturbed by his words, did not show it. For if truth be told, she had been expecting him too. Over the last few weeks, as the summer sun had become heavy, and nature’s green become deepened with its bounty, each night, as she had lain on her virginal cotton sheets, she had taken to tossing and turning, moaning and gasping in her sleep. Upon awakening, soaked in sweat, she had no recall of what had occurred in her dreamings, but there was a lingering feeling that something, someone, somehow, was calling for her. She did not know what, or whom, or why.
She stepped closer again and this time it was her who held out hands. Hers all alabaster and soft. Hades reached for them. His all tough flesh and hair.

I wondered why I was drawn to this absurdity this morning.

Persephone let go of Hades’ left hand, and with her right, she lifted up her white, and now soiled, skirt, to reveal a pair of shockingly scarlet red knickers. She had obviously known that it was to be today, and in entering the forbidden field, and tasting of the forbidden fruit, there had been a part of her, the woman of her, who had been prepared, hoping, praying, and yearning for this darkness to find her. And for him.

If by my being here, the daughter of the spring, the flowers were to then to die, because of my mother’s grief, I would watch my mother mourn for me. I will see her pain as she searches every land and sea, every cave and mountain, every nook and cranny. You see Hades, she does not know of death. She knows nothing of loss. I want for her to feel her love for me through its missing. Is that cruel of me?

Hades laughed and shook his head.

Oh no, not at all. Indeed that is the balance of all things. It always was and it always will be. This was to be your fate, the gods have written it so. Your soul is here in this place. And your heart, your heart, belongs to me. Here you will rule besides me Persephone, at my side. Forever.

Hades dropped to his knees before her, his horns narrowly missing scraping the sides of her thighs.

Persephone considered his offer for perhaps a nanosecond, before she too knelt down in front of him and looked him sharply in the eyes. Down here, she was no longer the little girl. No. She could feel it. She could feel the power beginning to seep through the pores of her skin. And she liked it. She liked it a lot.

Make me a crown from chalk white bones. Bones as old as time. Make me a crown and I will weep with wearing it. Make me a crown from all that has died and I shall glory in their death. Make me a crown from the skeleton that of all of life will one day know, and I will celebrate that which others recoil from with glee.

Hades threw back his head and roared the sound of a thousand wild beasts.
She took his head gently in her hands and leaned her brow against his.

I will lie with you, night after endless night, and ride the beast of you, so that our howls will make the moon quiver. My body is telling me that I will like that with great enormity.

She laughed and bit her lip at the thought. How wild she was. How wild she had only ever been.

In return you will be my queen. And queen of all that dares to rattle its snake tongued breath in these shadows. And I will love you with the force of an eternity of horses galloping into apocalyptic fever forever, determined, passionate, and with this only one intent. My queen, my queen, I will bury my face between your legs and drink the rust and sin and iron of your blood. I will suck upon your breast and suckle as the devil that I undeniably am!

By now, the king and queen of the underworld were weeping together, in joy, in lust, in love. Hands clawing at flesh and fur. Tongues unleashed and lapping. Panting and sighs escaping to bounce deep into the void.
They had found one another. And they were resolutely happy!

Persephone walks the floors of Hell, her domain, her gown long soaked in the cries of sorrows and the weepings of regret and longing. Each soul ache becoming a black faceted jewel upon her dress, or boned crown, or around her neck. She was glorious indeed. Her blood, once so pure like the first unknowing buds, now crimson with death. Yet it suited her. It suited her perfectly.
They lay together each and every night. Which, considering it was always night, meant that they lay together most of the time! She, kali, goddess of creation and destruction, life and death. He, Shiva, eternal now, always witnessing, no beginning, no ending. They lay together, fucking the eternal one, fucking Death itself.
 
And each spring, upon the first call of the light, when innocence wakes up anew, all sleepy eyed and foolish, she would hear the distant sounds of her mother Demeter’s heartbreak and sorrow, and it would shoot its arrow of life straight through her dark, cold heart. And she would kiss her slumbering king, get up, still naked, and leave. Her eyes blindfolded lest the sunlight burn her retinas inconsolably. She would stumble back up, up, up, and exhausted and weak, would collapse on to wet morning dew grass. Grass and morning both wet with hope.

Her mother would find her, hold her close, kissing her white pale skin, and wrap her in furs to take her home. There, Persephone, no longer the queen of darkness, would become the child willingly again. She is fed and nurtured. She is rocked with such sweet lullabies, and mothered back to life. Her soul gurgling as it rekindles its enchantment and innocence anew. It suits her. She forgets. She forgets Hades and power, lust and beastly things. She forgets that she is queen some place far far away from here. And she is happy again.

Until.

Until.

As the summer gives way with too much of its knowing, and the light falls weighted with sighs, and the leaves burn with the imminent need and desire to fall, so does she. The dreams begin once more. And she finds that forbidden field as if for the first time. And tastes the flesh of that pink fruit, as if for the first time. And he comes back, once again. And he holds out his hands to her, his black eyes red with the days he has counted in missing her. His queen. For she does not remember.

Oh my queen. Oh my queen.

And without hesitation this time, just a stirring humming between her thighs, she remembers. She takes his hands and remembers that this was why she had got dressed in her red knickers on that morning.
 
The end.

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Sleeping Beauty

   He had been on the road for longer than his memory permitted him. Freshly shaven when he had set off, his beard now brushed the place at the centre of his chest where he used to feel. He had been granted a warrior’s send off, trumpets blaring, flags raised, folk out lining the pebbled streets cheering and waving at him, bolstering his drive and lion’s roar. Proud he had felt then. Proud and strong, willing to be a hero. Yet he had forsaken humility who tut-tutted behind closed doors, and his arrogance had ushered him seductively with a bejeweled finger out into the wilds and beyond.

   As he traversed the curve of the earth seeking adventures so extravagant that he often wondered if he might have dreamt their passing, a curious thing was happening. For a brief moment after the fray had died down and he had saved the day once more, he felt the familiar swell of his pride, and, for that matter, his belly. He was always deservedly rewarded for his Goliath-esque efforts with the finest delicacies of the land. With belly and will satiated, off he would go the next dawn, seeking the next thrill. Because it was exactly this ‘thrill’ that seemed to sustain him, whispering in his ear to find a grander encounter, a more worthy opponent, and an ever greater and arduous task to pump the swell into a balloon so big he might have threatened to blow away with the winds!

   Until one day, he stopped. No great epiphany. No grand realization. No guilt or regret. Just a sudden determined knowing that all this bravado had no meaning for him anymore. Too far from his city to turn back now, he continued, his considerable gut leading the way. But over time, as his belly ceased to hold so much importance to him, and as the aforementioned beard tickled the place where his foolish heart lay waiting, he began to lose his way, lose any sense of direction, until the day arose when without a slither of doubt, he could quite certainly pronounce that he was indeed, utterly and ridiculously, lost.

   It was no coincidence that it was on that same day that he came across a formidable, dark, uninviting tangle of forest vines. A deathly hush hung over these branches, as if one might have been tempted to hold one’s breath. This would obviously be a foolish act to partake of, but still, he had to keep reminding himself to breathe! A tiny stir, like a rumbling echo was felt at his heart, though of course he did not consciously pay it any mind, having never visited this part of his anatomy for very long. But, for no other reason he could bring to mind, he began to make his way through and into this inhospitable and uninviting realm.

   As it turns out, this was possibly the harshest most testing of all the battles he had relished in recent years. The vines were toughened, by what might be impossibly conceived of as by anger. A deep-rooted bitterness provoked their laceratings and whippings, upon occasion tearing at his face with an almost unhidden glee. He fought harder, slicing his trusty metal sword through his opponents’ limbs, severing with a ‘body’ count unheard of. His sterile weapon glinted its unholy silver until the vines seemed to tremble in surrender and eventually, after much effort on both sides, they began to part and opened up with ease an approach towards what appeared to be a castle.

   By now, bloodied and heart pounding with a sweated brow and a feverish thirst, he strode without pause towards the open wooden doors. If he had found cause for concern as regards the distinct lack of any other forms of life he did not let this be shown, and instead mounted the curved swooping stairway, littered with leaves and petals, dust and cobwebs, taking the imposing stairs two at a time. He was ablaze with an intent that if one was to stop him and ask as to where he was in such a hurry to get to and for what reason, he would have been perplexed to have teased an answer from the air. Yet no matter. On the third floor, at the end of the corridor, he had come to a small closed door. Here he finally stopped, and for the first time in his entire wild and wondrous adventuring, he hesitated, for the briefest of moments, and once more something unrecognizable stirred at his heart. A little louder this time.

   The door knob turned easily in his hand, and with just an almost imperceptible doubt, he entered the room and found himself standing before a bed. Four-posted, billows of satin-swooped material tied with dainty bows, silken sheets, and pillows in every shade of crimson scattered. He moved the veil of fine gossamer netting that caused his view to be unclear, and saw her. Fast asleep. Breath seemingly held. One could have pronounced her dead but a curious rouge to her cheeks and the lush juice of her plum-hued lips sought to give that label doubt. It was the possible juice of this plum that tempted him and licking his own lips, leaned forwards and pressed his dry, toughened, calloused and hunger-filled mouth to hers. Finding himself sucking upon this fruit it did not seem to surprise him a jot when the ‘plum’ began to respond in kind. Drawing back he opened his eyes to find hers now too were open. Violet gaze in wide innocent-eyed wonder, and then her look changed. The side of her mouth began to curl up and she grinned at him, a temptress might have offered him a similar look many moons ago. She yawned noisily, stretched out her pallid limbs and with barely any effort, swung her legs over the side, placed her feet on the floor, and grasping the sheets tightly just in case, found her way to stand. Glancing at him again the sly smile returned and she reached for his hand giving a nod to the door.

   They left the same way he had arrived, yet the vines seemed to taunt her as she passed, thorns like fingernails scraping along her arms and down her back, and tearing provocatively at her white dress, ripping it from her flesh. The forest seemed to be breathing now in a slow sensual and languid way and this caused their pace to drop as if they were moving in slow motion. The limbed ones caressed her hair pulling its strands and luring it out of the tightly wrapped bundle until wisps hung past her shoulders. She felt the length of the vine spiraling itself around her bare leg, curling up past her knee, her thigh and stopping a hair’s breadth away from brushing against the white cotton of her panties. Hearing a panting behind him he turned and what he saw caused his heart to rip against his chest in desire. She was wild. Feral. Her dress was torn so her breasts were freed. The vines had playfully lifted her nightdress to reveal the purity that lay hidden beneath. Her plum mouth was wet and ajar, and she gazed at him with both fear and hunger.

   He pushed her against a waiting tree and as if in complicity the vines found her arms binding her tightly so she could not move. He watched breathlessly as nature’s limbs pulled her legs apart offering her, prey and willing body. His lips sought hers once more. Tongues lashed now, serpent games in each other’s mouths. Oh the delicious sweet fruit! His hands felt her breasts, squeezing them as if they were a different fruit for his delectation. He parted her legs wider with his own strong thighs and with a deft hand tore the panties from her revealing her wild bush-covered womanhood. Feeling the heat emanating from her, he unsheathed his own male flesh, hard and pulsating and plunged into her over and over, as she welcomed him, all of him, pulling him closer and deeper, sucking him in firmly to touch and caress the full source of her. When they had finished their juice flowed down her legs, red blooded drops marked their fornicating, on the ground by the roots of the accomplice tree. He took her hand and they continued out of the forest.

   If they had taken a moment to look back, they may have been surprised that from their creation sprang new shoots, red roses that rolled like a carpet over the land. Green vines, hearty and healthy, oozing sap, played with each other. Alive once more. Awake. Woken from a dream of death decay and rotting flesh.

   As it happened, they did peer back, just as they reached the opening back out into the world. They both smiled, and then laughed raucously before skipping off into their future.

   They were not surprised at all!

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Why Creativity is like Sex.

(A taste of the article published on Elephant Journal 2018)

"Creativity is like sex.

With all the chaos that the world seems to be twister twirling in right now, with all of the uncertainty, and the general breath-taking unease with which everything seems to be shifting and turning on its head, there is one thing that every single one of us has access to, that may carry us buoyantly and beautifully through these interesting and changing times: our creativity.

And if we turn more to creativity at this time, through our voice, our art, our collaborations, then we automatically, and ironically, are also connecting in to our sexuality.
Creativity and sexuality are interwoven, the same juju with which life is composed of. To separate them creates a chasm, a disturbance in the force if you like, whether that’s within our own selves, or on a grander more global scale, out in the world at large.

But how are they linked? And in particular, how does our creativity become akin to sex? I don’t know about you, dear artist of your own life, but when we are engaged in creating something, it feels good. Damn good! As a creativity coach, writer and dancer, these lines (and I don’t know why I now have an image of lightsabres in my mind!!) become crossed often, and maybe part of our growth, healing and a step in the right direction of living more wholeheartedly and passionately, is about allowing and acknowledging, heck even celebrating, the two!

Shall we look at the evidence? This is my take on what it’s like to create my art. Maybe you can resonate dear one.

When we’re in the mood, tickled and alive, excited and throbbing with desire, then we can’t get enough. We wholeheartedly decidedly greedily give of ourselves fully, letting ourselves stoke and feed the threads with every touch, bite, lick, suck, kiss, thrust and surrender. We do it because we are on board. We do so willingly because it feels gooooood.

But, sometimes we need a little time. There needs to be a willingness of course. A choice. A yes. We need to show up even if our internal temperature is cold, and our proverbial (and actual!) pussy has her slippers and fleecy nightie on dismissing any erotically hopeful fumblings as she flicks, not her clit, but the pages of a Danielle Steele blockbuster!
We need time. We need to allow. We need to agree that the first few rubs or nibbles or strokes might not yet cause a ripple to run through. And sometimes that’s just it and after a while we might proclaim enough is enough, not tonight José, and go on with other matters to hand.

Our creativity is like this. At least it is for me...."

(to continue reading click here xx)


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Leonard Cohen: A truth-saying slayer and Visionary.

(A taste of the article published on Elephant Journal 2016, my homage to one of my idols :-))

"I can’t help it. There is nothing else I desire to write about, other than the late, great Leonard Cohen.
Oh man. I am not alone in my outpouring of grief this morning. Of course not. If there is a crack in everything, then Leonard got in, most likely not creasing his sharp suits.

I can imagine him tipping his hat, a slight bow that permeated through his life. He bowed to life—its twists and turns, its bitter and its sweet—and he made art of it all. It’s a cruel world that we occupy, and maybe these days that cruelty has a sharper razor-bladed edge on it than usual. It certainly seems that way this year!

One of the remarkable qualities that Mr. Cohen embodied was that of a particular kind of humour—that of an old soul who has seen the same things unravelling over and over again. Call it that of a certain generation, where irony and disillusionment skipped alongside free love and a post war optimism, or call it the treasure of one who does not shy away from the greatest mystery of all of life, death itself.

One who can dance with his gravelly timbre—mockingly yet with reverence, with death—is surely one who has no fear of life. He saw, experienced and felt it all. The arrogance of the beautiful, the pain of romantic love, the doomed apocalyptic roller-coaster of greed that would tip mankind over the edge.

He was a religious man, a spiritual man if you like, and his medium of prayer was his poetry. Some would argue he wasn’t the best singer in the world, and he knew this, but if I wanted to send out a messenger with a list of all I wanted to say to God, I can’t think of anyone I would choose other than Mr. Cohen. Like a grit in the pearl, his voice echoed out loudly—with far greater genius than most—what we deeply hold in prayer silently within our own hearts.


He was a soul man with a rock and zen edge. Deadpan and deadly in his humour. With one line, he could pierce our illusions forever, burst the bubble and bring us right back down to earth. A holy earth though, a humanly mess with devilish dalliance and with divinity...."

(to continue reading click here xx)


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''Three Orange Men'' (published in Agave magazine, 2014)
 
It was not the most flattering of shades, an orange tired out by too much sun, a terracotta too ashamed to fire, a peach rolled around a little in the muddy earth...but it was the colour orange that linked them, to each other, to her story, and to her heart.
 
The first she met in India, land of many contradictory claims, the flip side of the coin, head spinner and soul changer...she was sick...he brought her tea and sat at the end of her bed with stories from the outside day...they shared joints and the right of passage of passing time in a foreign land.
 
Half Swedish, shaven head, green eyes...and an orange jacket with Thai style pyjama pants, in orange, to match.
 
They became lovers, though now she can’t recall how...hazy memories of Bollywood cinema goings, hand holding shyness, and there they were, romancing holiday style in the freedom of mosquito friendly rooms.
 
They met through synchronicities arrows over the course of several months, like a dna diagram, meeting again and again after pulling themselves in opposite directions...fated to wake in the heat of an afternoon, calls of 'madam' and sunsets, goa and acid, sweat filled nights of love making in another time, another world.
 
They saw each other again...London now...a few months later...he came to pick her up for a date...still wearing that orange jacket...it made her smile.
 
The second was her tantric lover in a springtime gone by...her tantric lover that she had boldly solicited for such a tryst on a train back from Yorkshire...20 years older, looking like a biology teacher, wise and a poet, words of intimacy, and devoted to her...they spent the next 3 months without clothes on apart from once...an art preview...would he like to accompany her, outside, in the company of other folk?...clothing essential...she wore a little black dress, appropriate for a cultured city eve...he wore orange...head to toe orange...he held her hand...she was slightly embarrassed…they never went out in public again...they didn’t have to get dressed anymore thank goodness...he fell in love with her, everything fell unbalanced until all the pieces rolled off the table and it was empty once more.
 
The third was a moment, an Argentinian angel, destined by the gods to be her birthday gift...35 years old in a small village in northern Argentina...midnight struck and she found herself in a tango chamber, a foreigner in a hall of dancing souls...no one spoke English...the hall lit by dark lamps, characters that looked like they had stepped off some folklore pages, raw, dashing the dream of mythical tango into some kind of east end gathering...old men with ashen faces, a tape machine with a worn out croak of a tune, plastic flowers on the tables...still, she whispered that it was her birthday to a woman who could possibly have been as olive as the cushion she sat upon, many kisses, fizzing wine and new friends followed.
 
He was a circus performer, an acrobat, a wide smile, juicy lips and solid frame...a sight of delight in orange...they met the next evening, a gallery in some colonial house, morbid twisted drawings and a guide eager to please...wine and pauses as each wondered what the other had just said...did it matter? not to her, their presence illuminated by the distance between them...still they liked each other that was clear...he went to fetch pizza, she to stare in wonder at the half horror half dazzle of carnival latin village style.
 
Maybe it’s not so much the fashion no more, and lovers have come and gone...but she misses the flash of orange that awoke the story of adventure and romance in her...she doesn’t see them on the streets, all greys and grays and hints of black to match the paving and sky...three orange men crossed her path once...three orange men.
 

 
HEIDI HINDA CHADWICK: THE CREATIVE GENIUS
LIFE IS ART. ART IS LIFE.
© COPYRIGHT 2021. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

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