Quoting 'White Fang'

Here's a great quote from 'White Fang' by Jack London.
Opening paragraph...

"Dark spruce forest frowned on either side the frozen waterway. The trees had been stripped by a recent wind of their white covering of frost, and they seemed to lean toward each other, black and ominous, in the fading light. A vast silence reigned over the land. The land itself was a desolation, lifeless, without movement, so lone and cold that the spirit of it was not even that of sadness. There was a hint in it of laughter, but of a laughter more terrible than any sadness - a laughter that was mirthless as grimness of infallibility. It was the masterful and incommunicable wisdom of eternity laughing at the futility of life and the effort of life. It was the Wild, the savage, frozen-hearted Northland Wild" (London, 91).

Third paragraph...

"In advance of the dogs, on wide snowshoes, toiled a man. At the rear of the sled toiled a second man. On the sled, in the box, lay a third man whose toil was over, - a man whom the Wild had conquered and beaten down until he would never move nor struggle again. It is not the way of the Wild to like movement. Life is an offence to it, for life is movement; and the Wild aims always to destroy movement. It freezes the water to prevent it running to the sea; it drives the sap out of the trees till they are frozen to their mighty hearts; and most ferociously and terribly of all does the Wild harry and crush into submission man - man, who is the most restless of life, ever in revolt against dictum that all movement must in the end come to the cessation of movement" (London, 92)

Recommended to all.

Recalling the Abyss

He walks with no where to go. He pauses here and there to find some sort of direction. He heads west. He doesn't

know what he's looking for (that's if he is looking at all). He wears sea green canvas pants. A cherry stained sweater

stained with the obstacles he encounters as he makes his way along darkened alleys and ruptured wood fences. He

wears his matching cherry socks over his pants - a blossom growing beneath the sea. He walks with liquor bags in

his hands, heavy and full of sharp edges and rusty nails. He is not sure whar he will do with what he finds on his

journey but it is well known that another man's junk is a strangers treasure.

His long skinny legs take long purposeful pases along the cemented road, his knees bending with every step. It is a

sunny and breezy day. He squints his left eye as he walks towards the setting sun - his right eye covered by the

single filled sunglass lens. He is unshaved and untainted. He has grown accustomed to the judging stares of passing

people. They have an agenda to fulfill, hurriedly walking to reached their pre-scheduled appointment. He, on the other

hand, has no agenda to follow, no appointment to hurry to attend and no destination other than the ambiguousness of

the 'west'.

He walks along Boswell Avenue and faces a dreadful encounter ahead - two beautiful women smiling at the gossip

their day has brought them. He pauses and becomes motionless. His mind draws a blank when he urges it to guide

him in this delicate matter. He is ugly beneath the filth that has made his skin dry and blemished. He has stood in

front of building windows and has tried to figure out what he looked like before his unforeseen runaway. He couldn't

recall a thing. If he were asked how he became like this - a lonesome wolf outcasted by the rest of the pack - he

would reply,

"I don't recall how, but I know that I am here. The past is the fallen edge of a cliff. All I know hot to do is walk onward

and away from the debris."

But no one would ask, instead they would assume and feel that to be a relatively correct summary of the broken man.

They stare at him standing awkwardly in the middle of the sidewalk. They furrow their eyebrows and divide to pass

him on either side. One stepped onto the neighbouring law and the other off the curb - just enough distance. He

stared straight ahead until he couldn't hear the quickening steps behind him. When the world once again became

silent he took one step forward and turned his neck slightly to see no one behind him. He continues to walk west -

onward. His mind does not begin to analyze his actions. He has done that for far to long, and unsuccessfully.

He knows what is wrong with him. He has only ever been able to make one decision in which his body and mind both

agreeably set forth - to runaway. Every other decision has been a failure because they've all been expected; actions

foreseen by others as correct and appropriate. He fears decision already made for him - decision he is unable to

uphold.

He walks on and pauses often in the middle of the street. He does not want to go back to deal with the void of his

past but struggles every moment not too. But his clenched hands around his heavy bags hold his sturdily. He

refuses his knees to buckle and his hands to disguise any tears that may fall beneath them. He sees the world

through one unprotected eye and leaves the other in darkness, fallen away into the abyss of the past.

His is a journey of walking away from the edge - west and onward.

The Diary of the Unspoken: Day 1

Her mind commits its own crimes. She doesn't know how to control it and with every attempt at trying to control it she realizes how serious her own deception is. Her mind if not contained nor the product of reality - her body is a victim.
Everyday, every moment that she feels she should say something, do something - anything - she must consult the consequences in her mind.
She must first enact the possible situation in her mind. Her life resembles novels that guide you to many, varying endings - which one would you choose? The possibilities are endless and time consuming.
Each time her physical body and a little space of her insecure mind want something it is minutes before a decision is made, and by that time it's too late - the moment has gone.
If she were to describe her mind, she would compare to the life of a teen searching for acceptance. in her girlfriends. No matter how wrong a situation may seem if it achieves the desired end, any moral and ethical thought can be forgotten until later when the deed has left her conscious paranoid and guilty.
The larger portion of her mind is a bully, but rather than forcing her to do something - it doesn't allow her to. It is protective over her, like that boyfriend she once had (much too over protective).
It is hard for her to describe something that she is not fully aware of, especially something as complex as the mind.
What the mind wants, it gets - always. There is never a need to think ahead, prepare or be cautious when the mind knows what it wants.
She drives herself insane. She is going insane. It is subtle but it is happening with great intensity in small doses.
She wants to run until her damaged lungs grant her no more breaths. She wants to run from her thoughts and force them to be left behind, to capture another vacant body. Maybe she'll find peace someday - maybe. How would she find peace? She doesn't want to have to sacrifice who she is. Can someone do that? Find peace and still be who you are?
There is a rage within her - anger and hate. Towards who? Herself?
So many personal issues can be tracked to mishaps in childhood. There was nothing wrong with hers. So what does she turn to know for answers and reasoning? Where does she go when her enemy controls every move she makes?

Acoustic Man

Let me see if I can remember that night:

It was a small hot cafe. Three bands were to play that night. I watched two. He poured me a beer - the main man of the final gig. Tall and sweet would be two words to describe him (many more, I'm sure, would be less flattering).
The second band, consisting of five musicians, were upbeat and karaoke-like. Nevertheless quite pleasing to see. The room was located at the far end of the cafe, with only an emergency exit as the source of circulation, if it were open. The stage, small and unflattering, lay a meter away from the nearest table. I was sitting to the left surrounded by his numerous supporting friends, that I was briefly acquainted with, and my best friend. We spoke little but shared a look or two of 'that's deep' throughout the night.
When the final song was finished, and we were introduced to the members of the second band we awaited the man of the night to begin. Sadly, the right half of the room was vacated with the previous band, but encouragement and support was not sacrificed (a room filled with disinterested observers does not compare to that of a few people who believe and cheer for what they observe). He began to take the stage. Playing a few strings, he adjusted the main soundboard to compliments his acoustic guitar and vocals.
Acoustic guitars. I'm not sure what is so intriguing about them. I have associated them with the bearing of one's soul. Each string playing in unison, creating a melody which allows those who watch and he who plays to feel insecure and exposed. The lyrics which accompany the melody are irrelevant but crucial nonetheless. An acoustic guitar mimics the soul for all the hear, even if 'all' is just one.
His hands trembled slightly while he adjusted the knobs. Whether the nerves were the result of playing for an audience or fearing that he would reveal to much - I'm not sure. He settled himself into his seat, laying the groove of the guitar on his right thigh. He played his list of songs, many of which intrigued me to know more about this 'acoustic man'. As he played, he stomped the his feet heavily to keep time. His hands delicately played the chords while his feet furiously shook the floor - a contrast we all exhibit.
A song is the escape for a much deeper feeling, feelings which can easily be misunderstood and thus, unexplainable. His whole body jolted and swayed with the rhythm - adjusting it to the mood the song invoked. Is this not how we all live - according to the moment? Not at all.
By the end of it the half-filled room was applauding and whistling in appreciation. He sighed with relief and patted his neck with a handy towel. The night was over and I wasn't sure what I had come away with. Possibly an enjoyable night. Possibly the desire of wanting such a soulful man. As he was playing a sombre tune I remember imagining him in his room, sitting on the edge of his bed, pen held in his mouth, recording a note or two on a lonesome blank sheet of paper. Maybe I came away with the desire of wanting to play - to find a way to bear my soul for a sweaty, drunk audience who may relate. What I am sure I came away with is the desire of wanting. I just wish I knew what it was...

Short Story: A Real Fantasy

Title: A Real Fantasy

Written By: Cristina DM.

Narrator:

The following is a tale of an unexpected date.

She lay angled so that she could see the glaring television. Her head moved in unison with his breathes – up, down, up, down. It seemed she was more than content with being in that very moment – no pressure to fulfill any expectations. It was not planned that she would find her way to him, but the ruthless night sent her in any direction. As long as the night was not already constructed beyond her will and capabilities, it was bound to be satisfying. She had been let down by this man again and again but felt that by seeing him her sins committed earlier would be forgotten or justified.

…

She was on the streetcar late on a Wednesday night, trying to settle plans for the upcoming weekend. The few moments between messaging her friends, she began to think over what it was she really wanted and how, when she decided what it was, she would achieve it and release all her obligations to her insignificant others. With an abrupt jolt, the streetcar came to a stop meters before the turn into the station. As the driver stepped outside to clear the track, it was decided that the night would end with another unanswered message.

Once the streetcar made its screeching turn into the station, she realized that she was rather hungry. Stepping out, she noticed that her bus home was waiting in its designated space – a coincidence which rarely occurred. She was faced with a dilemma: go to sleep hungry or eat and wait for another bus. She makes a right and walked into the McDonalds (her only choice at this hour) and ordered herself two cheeseburgers to go. Walking passed idling buses a quarter filled, she made her way to an isolated bench and sat down awaiting her bus. Suddenly she heard her phone beep – she received a message. Quickly fumbling for her phone she unlocks it and reads the message – ‘I’ll be there in 10 minutes’.

She began to think that maybe this night wouldn’t be all the terrible, although she thought she’d be more excited knowing that she was going to see him in a few minutes. Until the very moment he messaged her again and told her that he was finally at home and that she could pass by, she doubted the whole thing. Throwing away her wrappers and bag she began to walk a block from the station to his complex. It was drizzling so she wrapped her white pashmina loosely over her hair. In less than five minutes she was at his front door - ‘I’m outside’. Send.

She didn’t know where the night would lead her. Previously, when she would meet with him, on the rare occasions when circumstances allowed it, she had a great time, each night with its own progress, regression and experiences. She’d known him since she was very young and whether this is the reason she feels a connection towards him, she was not yet sure. In the most recent time she’d met him, she was sure that there was a feeling of sexual tension between him and her – but nothing happened to solidify or reject this feeling. He opened the door after a moment, closed it behind him and she walked up his steps to hug hello.

She wanted to smile and joke with him but the one thing she was determined to do before this was to confront him.

“What happened yesterday?” she asked awaiting another well calculated excuse.

“I told you I had family over. Well, my cousin got kicked out of her house and she wanted to come over and stay the night. It was like, 2 am and I was worried so I called my dad to pick her up but she took a cab here” he paused. “Her parents keep arguing with her and accusing her of things she doesn’t do, so she needed to get away. I had to sleep on the coach because my dad offered her my room.” There was another slight pause and then he continued, “I was going to tell you and I thought that there was enough time to meet but things didn’t work out.”

“Ok. Why didn’t you message me and tell me that you couldn’t meet with me? You messaged me and told me you’d call me at six, but then six came along without a phone call. As a matter of fact, there wasn’t a phone call all night.” She pauses to stare at him as he lets his head hang trying to hide a smirk.

“All I needed you to do was tell me you wouldn’t make it. I don’t appreciate you just forgetting about the whole thing and not letting me know what’s going on. Why are you laughing?” she asked wondering if it was her that he was laughing at.

“I don’t know. I meant to meet with you. I don’t know,” he replies shaking his head and smirking still.

“Are you laughing at the coincidence?” she asked, knowing that that was exactly what he was laughing at.

“Yes. I’m usually doing nothing. Like, I don’t usually have plans or anything. I just wasn’t expecting my cousin to run away from home,” he replied with a serious tone – a truthful tone.

Convinced that she said what she was determined to say, she concluded the topic by saying, “All I ask is that you let me know when you can’t make it. Don’t just leave me hanging. Ok?”

“Ya.”

There was a rush of relief that fell over her. She set herself out to do something, say something, and she did. Better yet, she received the reaction she wanted – slight guilt. This reaction helped to reassure her that the connection she feels towards him is reciprocated.

It has always been a fault of hers to re-create relationships in her mind, according to her own laws, ones that change in relation to her mood. The division of fantasy and reality are always blurred, but even more so for her. She would vicariously live through her thoughts, her imagination, her re-creations. However, his reaction justifies it all.

“Did you want to come in and have a drink?” he asked, possibly wanting to reconcile.

“I was just going to stop by. I can’t stay long,” she replied, hoping that he would insist. He did.

“Come on,” he said with a smile, gently ushering her towards the door, “you have to come in and have a drink now.”

“One drink,” she replied. Her mind began to race hastily, to figure out how the night would end. Or had she already figured it out?

She stepped in his home, side tracking the misplaced bicycle, closed the door and began up the steps to his living space. Removing her converse’s she walked in his TV room and placed her jacket and purse on a white Victorian chair leaning against the wall opposite of the television stand. He walked out of the kitchen and into the living room, handing her a fresh beer.

“You haven’t been here in a while, right?” he asked noticing her searching the room for the synthesizer and guitars that used to lie underneath the kitchen bar.

“I guess so. Where’s your equipment?” she asked, wondering if this would be the moment that would lead her to see his bedroom, a flight of stairs up.

“It’s in my room. Come and check it out,” he invitingly commanded as he began to climb the stairs.

She followed, wondering what his room would look like. When she lay in her own room watching television late at night she always wondered if he was doing the same. As she entered the room she was greatly surprised to find it neat and decided not to question whether it was his work or the work of his mother, two doors down the hall. She was pleased that now she could realistically create his room in her mind. All that she had to imagine and invent was him – where he was seated, what he was doing and what he was thinking. Sometimes it was easier to determine the facts first.

He had returned a few weeks ago from visiting his paternal father and brother in Ecuador, the Galapagos Islands. He had mentioned this to her in one of their exchanged messages. He had videos and pictures he wanted to show her as they made their way to his room. Before doing this, he showed her an armadillo guitar that his father gave to him as a gift and played a note or two – the sound reminded her of a night of never-ending festivities.

He had returned from a karaoke bar when he invited her over. He had much to drink already and wasn’t shying away from a few more beers. She had seated herself on his bed and was watching him stumble to start his DVD of photos and videos. While viewing them, she indefinitely saw how much this young man looked up to his father and how fulfilled he was for spending a month there with him. Nevertheless, jokes were made and laughs shared.

She had finished her drink but did not acknowledge it – she wanted to stay a little longer. Her subtleness gave way when he had finished his and offered her another. She politely reminded him that she was only going to stay for one – if she had another, she’d have to leave. When he returned he asked if a movie would be alright. She knew that a movie would take much to long to view but he insisted and tossed a few DVD’s at her to choose from. In the end, it was he who chose to watch a concert DVD of the Foo Fighters.

In the mist of watching the concert and small talk, he left the room. With a book in his hand he returned a moment later. It was an astrology book that described your own personality to you in relation to your sign in unison with the moon, mercury and the sun. He read pages to her. She listened intently and nodded when the book was partly correct. Finishing another beer, he went downstairs. In the meantime, she lay back on his bed, resting her head on his mountain of pillows and read a page or two to herself.

When he returned he placed the computer wicker chair back into its place and sat near her on the bed. She stood up and sat near him. They continued to talk of the book and its similarities to her personality. Once all the pages were read, he turned on the TV for cable late night shows. He lay down but his feet remained off the bed, to the side. She lay separated from him, with her own pillow, wondering when she would lay with him. As she was watching the show, he was silent, and for fear of him falling asleep she would look up and catch him staring at her.

“Are you awake?” she asked, slightly embarrassed that she caught him off guard, but pleased nonetheless.

“Ya.” He replied and began to fiddle with her hair draped along the back of her pillow.

After a few more minutes, she looked up at him again and he grabbed her gently by the arm and lifted her towards him so that she may lay her head on his chest. She loved it there. His beat was strong and unpredictable. She would glide her hand along his chest to test whether she made his heart race. She enjoyed being where she was in that very moment, and did not expect any more good to come from a night which convinced her to turn out the opposite.

…

It was approaching three a.m., her mother had called and wanted her home – even if she was just down the street.

“I have three minutes,” she told him.

And without a moments thought he approached her, head slightly bent, as she rose her head and kissed. She had wanted this to happen for so long and now she was sure that it was to be worth the wait. She tipped his cap of his head, and leaned in closer. Their heads weaved with one another as though they were created a blanket to envelop themselves in – a moment to which no one could intrude. She had known him for many years, since childhood, and never believed that he would be able to do this, and so she was proven wrong. But more importantly, he did it right, confidently and with purpose. He lifted her arm and placed it near his head and traced her arm, done her side and engulfed her in a powerful and protective hug. She wanted him to hold her tighter and tighter, she loved how it felt to be inseparable for a moment. He couldn’t let go and she didn’t want him to.

He began to lift himself and placed her on the bottom. He lay between her legs and lifted hers so that they wrapped around his. She held him tight. The kissing was relentless and satisfying. She didn’t think it could get any better – but it did. She held his face in her hands but he began to lift them away and guide them above her head. He held them down. She felt incredibly vulnerable but had no reaction to cover, protect or refuse herself to him. He held them down with one hand and began to trace her side along down to her hip. She was lost. His hand began to ascend once again and as he let go of her hands, she did not defensively bring her arms back down but kept them there as he intertwined his fingers with hers. She questioned if this was even possible – how could he know just what to do and when to do it? She didn’t wonder how many came before her, she just wanted to know what else was awaiting her. She yearned and he lifted her again, so that he lay under her. The kissing began to grow softer, slower – less intense. She knew that it was over, she had to return to the complication and intricacies of life.

She lay on him, head nuzzled into the crevice of his neck, waiting as her breath began to return to normal. He continued to play with her hair, combing it out of the way, kissing her forehead. As she lay there she thought how satisfying the wait was, as well as how much more complicated this has made everything. She knew that she was not ready for commitment and he as well, but she wanted this night to happen again – and again – and again. She would look up and see him smiling to himself, for whatever reason, and she reciprocated.

“I love how we both can’t help smiling,” she said cunningly.

He just continued to smile. After a long moment of rest she fell off to his right – both staring at one another.

“So what do you think of this?” she asked, uncertain of what she wanted to hear.

“What do I think of this?” he replied, with a smirk.

“Yes…”

“I think it should’ve happened a while ago,” he replied with a contrasting serious tone.

She did not reply but allowed the answer to absorb. In previous times they had met she wondered when she was walking home if he really did like her – he did.

“What do you think of this?” he asked mockingly.

“I’m not sure,” she said. She feared saying something that she may regret later.

“It was something, right?” he asked, scared that she may say it was nothing at all.

“It was definitely something,” she said with a smile on her face, looking at him as his smile began to grow and fear exit his mind.

After another moment of content and rest, he continued, “I just think you’re a beautiful person.”

She couldn’t help the smile that grew steadily on her face. She was ready to throw everything away and commit all of herself to him. Nothing else mattered then the moment in which they both, wholly, participated in, with unquestionable conviction.

______________________________________________________________________________

Narrator:

The problems which tomorrow will bring her will without a doubt be hurtful, complicated and unresolved. She will return to her re-creations, insecurities and vulnerable self. But although these two people, who seem to be made for one another, may never be so – this story will be looked upon by both whenever one is in need of a real fantasy.

Written in 2007

It was like being in a waiting room without ever making an appointment. You knew you weren’t going to be served but you waited, regardless. And you waited because you thought that they were coming. Thought they’d know you were in pain. But the world is blind to those who are ordinary, who speak nothing of their fears, who believe the healing comes from within. So I just kept on waiting for someone to call my name…to call me on my…

Glossy Borders (2007)

Glossy Borders

Looking through a lens, a rectangular cut out of what is in front of you is emphasized and imprisons a wandering mind into one narrow set of emotions. This is the conclusion I encountered when I took this photograph. With a squinting eye, I saw nothing more than the landscape contained in the four borders of the semi-glossed paper. The unsheltered tents of weathered wood, vulnerable to a strong and demanding current that could inhabit them with one starved swallow, made me wonder. “Are we all defenseless to the things we cannot control?”

Click. The picture was stored but I didn’t remove the camera from my enticed eye. Instead I stared, hoping that if I could just think harder, if I could only read between the lines, then I would find the answer to my question. I examined the scene. “The sea is calm, enjoying another peaceful evening alone, but it is restless. The rocks seem to be numbed by the constant waves, dulling their sensitivity, but they are not dead. The sand left traces of its earlier history, tracks and footsteps of many, but each grain holds a purpose of its own. The gray sky fighting away the descending sun is simply having a bad night.” And at that moment I realized, I could not control what I saw in front me. All I could do was embrace its presence, become defenseless to its provocative thoughts. “To replace each aged plank of wood, would remove the wisdom it brings to its observers. Should the sea become infuriated and drag them away, it was but their fate.”

“Are we defenseless to what we cannot control?” I opened my eye, placed the camera back into its case and answered, “No. We are but defenseless to what our mind seeks to find, answers.”

The Exploitation

Stop the screeching - shut your ears.
Stare at the silence,
despise the fear.
It is only when we are silent,
do we understand the true essence of sound.

Perfectly Imperfect (Feb. 12 '07)

Taking into account the need to release her desperation, Janet made her way to the washroom. Attending an art gallery opening deemed to be frustrating and demanding in presenting sophistication. Growing up with a wealthy family and stress on becoming successful, captured Janet in a perfect setting. Everything must be perfect, her actions, her attitude and her future preparations.
Turning on the hot water tap and dipping her hands under its rushing stream, Janet realized she needed to get away. She needed to escape this life that her relatives and surroundings had placed upon her. She needed to be spontaneous, experience things that would be frowned upon by family and endless acquaintances. She didn't want her picture perfect persona. Janet wanted to be someone else, if it were only for a day.
Patting the warm water along her nape, she turned off the tap and dried her hands.
'Must I return to that assembly of fake people and practiced conversation?'
Janet contemplated this question, took a long look around the washroom searching for any exits. None.
'I must.'
Stepping into the vast gallery, she tugged her turquoise skirt down into a perfect drape. Her black collared shirt with a set of silk ruffles down the middle, allowed her to fit in perfectly. Taking a glance at the familiar faces, Janet walked towards a picture hanging on the far wall. Picking up a glass of champagne from a young blond caterer, she studied the art. It displayed a young girl standing in the middle of a crowd. There were few colours in the painting because the girl was the only one painted in them. She was surrounded by black and white shadows of people. It seemed to her this painting was portraying the young girls need to be alive, to be free and away from the boring others she finds herself intoxicated by. Janet thought this was her, standing lonely and yet amidst conversation. She was fed up.
'I'm getting out of here.'
Rushing through the judging eyes, Janet left the glass on a nearby table and rushed towards the exit. Stepping into the drizzling rain, she realizes that it is not the settings that must change, but it is herself she must amend. Stepping back into the gallery she lets go of all expectations placed upon her, and lets her personality run through the crowd. The cage that she has been living has been the fear of being herself, of letting go of the routines that had been engraved into her. Speaking without care for her appropriateness, giggling without reminding herself that she cannot draw excessive attention and being affectionate without the suffocating bubble of loneliness. Finally, Janet had a night worth remembering; a night worth reliving; a night of self-actualization.

How To Lose A Guy... Effortlessly?

Low classical music in the background.

Large hall with men in tuxedos and women dressed to impress.

Three women standing near the appetizer table, overdressed in bulky gowns and extravagant headpieces.

Sipping champagne from tall glasses rimmed with their red lipstick.

Rita

Rita is a blond haired, short and chubby woman thirty-five years of age. She is wearing a purple gown and has vibrant makeup on. She is carrying a purse, bulging with different types of makeup and applicators.

Laura

Laura is a tall brunette and slender woman of the same age. She is dressed in an off white gown, with detailed beading. She is fanning herself with a red, floral paper fan.

Elizabeth

Elizabeth is an average woman in height and weight and slightly younger than the others. She is dressed in a light green gown and endlessly eating appetizers.

Rita: This night should be one to remember. It will be like no other!

Laura: Most definitely. You both look like beauties. I must ask you Elizabeth, where did you get that incredible head piece?

Elizabeth grabs a piece of shrimp from the appetizer table and replies with her mouth full. After she answers she licks each fingers clean.

Elizabeth: It was just lying around the house. A thing so beautiful should not be forgotten.

Rita: I agree. It can be quite surprising what one may find by accident.

Awkward silence. All three women busily search the crowd.

Laura: Quite amazing who they invite to these balls. Seems everyone is of importance nowadays.

A young couple, mid-twenties, walks past the three women in conversation. Rita hides her purse behind her back, Laura lifts her chin and continues to fan herself and Elizabeth swallows quickly. After they have past, Rita brings forth her purse, Laura stops fanning and Elizabeth gets another shrimp.

Laura: Men just settle for what is hands length away. Had they searched a while, they may have found women worthy of them.

Elizabeth and Rita stare at Laura.

Rita: Are you becoming bitter with age?

Laura: Of course not! I just think I could have made a better match. She’s much to short for him.

All three women bend to look at the couple at the far end of the hall. Then Elizabeth and Rita nod their heads in consideration.

Elizabeth: This is not a dating service Laura. These men are not looking for marriage possibilities.

Laura: Of course not! Not just yet anyway. They must see the possibilities first.

Laura strikes a pose and fans herself but eventually gets tired and stops.

Rita: I highly doubt seeing you will change a man’s mind.

Laura gives a nasty look to Rita.

Elizabeth: Then why is it, Rita, that you have come?

Rita (seriously): To enjoy myself…

Elizabeth: You are showing no symptoms of fun.

Rita: I am waiting for the perfect moment.

Elizabeth: To do what exactly?

Laura: To look like she’s having fun and to smile that horrendous smile of hers.

Elizabeth: I have a better chance of enchanting a man with this horrendous smile then making a man divorce his wife because she’s too short.

Elizabeth grabs another piece of shrimp and dips it into some sauce and drips a bit onto her gown.

Laura: I will do nothing. He shall simply be attracted to me.

Laura begins to fan herself but eventually gets tired again and stops.

Elizabeth: Ah yes, a man with a future changing his life for a woman who believes herself to be a magnet.

Laura: Sweet Elizabeth. I cannot change the aura that surrounds me.

Rita: Aura? There is a cloud of perfume surrounding you that can suffocate any human being.

Laura stares cunningly at Rita, then turns away and begins to fan again.

Laura: Then why haven’t you fallen to the floor yet?

Rita: I have trained myself to breathe through my mouth.

Laura: Quite attractive to have a woman with her mouth gaping open.

Elizabeth (chewing): It’s going to have to be when you find yourself a man.

Laura: Oh be quite! You’re going to suffocate yourself if you continue to eat those shrimp five at a time!

Rita (smiling): I’ll scream a warning to the crowd when she appears to be on the edge of bursting.

Laura (mockingly): Danger! She’s full! Danger!

Elizabeth goes to reach for another shrimp, but decides against it.

Elizabeth: Quite the clowns you two are. The makeup suits you both.

Rita: Men like makeup.

Laura (fanning herself again): It enhances a woman’s best features.

Elizabeth (giggling): Then what is your purpose for wearing it?

Rita (upset): Oh pooh.

Awkward silence. All three women busily search the crowd, again.

Elizabeth: But really, what is our purpose for attending these balls?

Rita: To meet men.

Another couple walks by, and all three women fix themselves to appear proper. Laura continues to stare at the couple, leaning over.

Laura: To steal men.

Elizabeth: And yet, we are standing here.

Host begins to give a closing speech to end the night.

Laura: Well we better leave.

Elizabeth takes one more shrimp and they begin to walk out. The three women begin to go their separate ways.

Rita: Well all the best ladies. Shall you two be attending here next Friday?

Elizabeth (nods): And on an empty stomach.

Laura: Yes. I shall go shopping for a new fragrance to wear.

Rita (in thought): I shall experiment with new colours, and surprise you two next week. And possibly pack lighter.

Rita lifts her bulky purse and waves goodbye. Laura and Elizabeth wave back, and all three women begin on their ways home, alone.