May 30: Write the most pretentious short story possible
Mrs. Lanthemum picked seven large cucumbers from the acre-wide garden
outside Lanthemum Estates in the south of France. The day was overcast
and it was mid-June and above, ravens circled endlessly over head. Caw,
they would call to each other. Caw. Caw. Caw. Caw. Mrs. Lanthemum
looked at the ravens. Her eyes were very big and very brown and they
were shielded behind a pair of sun goggles that protected not only her
eyes but also her brows and her cheeks. Mrs. Lanthemum did not like the
ravens; they reminded her of her father's disapproving manner when she
told him that she was a lesbian.
She had spent the morning in the garden, searching for the perfect cucumbers. They needed to be ripe but not too ripe; their skin had to be hard and cool to the touch. Now that she had them, she handed them to Raoul, her butler, who was dressed in a white frilly shirt and a black dinner jacket with polished brass buttons. His trousers were grey and finely pressed, the crease in them as straight as a razor. His face was smooth, rather young looking for a man over 50, and he carried about him the scent of apricot. Mrs. Lanthemum, who had seen Raoul do his toilet on a few occasions, knew that it was a cologne imported from Sri Lanka. Mrs. Lanthemum smiled at Raoul but Raoul, who knew his place, did not smile back. As a servant, Raoul knew his place was not to engage in trivialities and small talk - not to speak of the polo matches or the works of Monet or the operetta currently playing at the Royal Alberstat Theatre. No. That was for the nobility. He retired with the cucumbers, bowing slightly, eager to chop the cucumbers into halves and then quarters and then eighths and then into tiny cubes, which would then be marinated in a sauce of mayonnaise and currants and apple cider and nutmeg and finely pressed garlic - all to be served on hot toast at the evening's Grand Ball.
Mrs. Lanthemum exited the garden and again lounged on the wood and leather chaise-longe that had been built especially for her by her lover, Lady Matilda Zamzam of the Crystal Coast of Norway. It was true that Lady Matilda was 43 years her senior, that her eyesight was fading, that her bosom heaved like two full witches' cauldrons and that she was gradually losing control of her sphincter, particularly after consuming the stewed prunes of which she was particularly fond. Oh but what wonderful poetry she wrote. How it was filled with the passion of French joie-de-vivre. Reading it reminded Mrs. Lanthemum of her own girlhood in London. It was a happy girlhood but a sad one too. Her father, a cruel magistrate with a position high in the church of England, had wanted his sole daughter to be an abbess. Failing that, to teach at the convent. He had arranged her to be married to Lord Byron Lanthemum, owner of the Great Lanthemum Tobacco Plantation, but it had been Lord Byron's niece that Mrs. Lanthemum loved. Oh and how terrible it had been to be caught in each others' arms at the Strawberry Festival - she with a jar of sardines, her with a silk negligee. Anastasia Corsanicko had died that very evening, punctured by a dozen bayonets thrust forward by His Majesty's own personal army. And Mrs. Lanthemum had been placed in asylum for seven years until the earthquake hit and the prison tower collapsed and Mrs. Lanthemum swam to freedom over one mile of cold and salty sea.
Lady Matilda's man had found her and, at first, thought her to be dead. It was only after coughing up a glut of seawater that he realized the awful truth and called for his Lady. Mrs. Lanthemum smiled as she remembered that day and her eyes fell to the chaise-longe, where Lady Matilda Zamzam's latest volume of poetry, entitled The Bitter Tears of the Birds of Marmaduke, rested on the left armchair.
Mrs. Lanthemum sat on the chaise-longe. She was a tall and handsome woman of 40 years and she wore a one-piece bathing suit with a pattern of black and white stripes. There was a table next to the chaise-longe and on it was a glass and a pitcher of iced tea. There was a lemon wedge stuck on to the glass rim and Mrs. Lanthemum could see droplets of lemon juice clinging to the yellow meat of the lemon.
She plucked up the book and, for the eleventh time that day, let her eyes roll over the epigram.
"This volume of poetry is dedicated to my one true love, the former Mrs. Denise Lanthemum (nee Brown.) It is my fondest wish that these poems reflect, to the casual reader, a fraction of the immense love I feel for you, dear woman. MZ."
Now Mrs. Lanthemum turned to her favourite poem, which was entitled: On Traveling to Greece With My Lady Love
Here then is the turquoize dance floor
of the Mediterreanean sea
so calm so free. No waves
to rock our boat.
And you, my love,
my lady love
so resplendent on the yacht I bought.
You in your yellow bikini
your skin brown like chocolate
your teeth white like almond milk.
I watch as you tow the rope
and the birds scream our names.
On the table in front of us
the remains of a Greek meal.
Some chunks of lamb
some tzaki sauce
fresh olives and garlic and sugared yams.
My belly jiggles as I watch
my large bosom swell with pride
that you are my lady love
and then you smile
and say that you need to use the ladies
for you are allergic to lamb souvlaki
and you are about to shit your pants.
Mrs. Lanthemum stopped reading and cast her mind back to that day, now four years ago. She had brought only one bathing suit and that was unfortunate for the bathing suit was ruined and she and Lady Matilda Zamzam had cast it into the Mediterreanean and watched it float away until it was eaten by a shark and she had spent the rest of the trip naked - except for when they stopped in Athens to take in the production of the Bacchae, in which case she'd had to wear a borrowed chiton.
Now Raoul was approaching and Mrs. Lanthemum saw that he was pulling something behind him. It was something fairly large, fairly heavy, and as he drew closer, she could see it was the corpse of her lover, Lady Matilda Zamzam.
"She died at the gate," Raoul said. "Heart attack, I think, though it may be the plague."
Mrs. Lanthemum gazed sadly down at the corpse of her lover. Already her lips were turning white and the grey hairs that once bounced so girlishly now lay dead on her brow like winter grass.
"Pity," said Mrs. Lanthemum.
She had spent the morning in the garden, searching for the perfect cucumbers. They needed to be ripe but not too ripe; their skin had to be hard and cool to the touch. Now that she had them, she handed them to Raoul, her butler, who was dressed in a white frilly shirt and a black dinner jacket with polished brass buttons. His trousers were grey and finely pressed, the crease in them as straight as a razor. His face was smooth, rather young looking for a man over 50, and he carried about him the scent of apricot. Mrs. Lanthemum, who had seen Raoul do his toilet on a few occasions, knew that it was a cologne imported from Sri Lanka. Mrs. Lanthemum smiled at Raoul but Raoul, who knew his place, did not smile back. As a servant, Raoul knew his place was not to engage in trivialities and small talk - not to speak of the polo matches or the works of Monet or the operetta currently playing at the Royal Alberstat Theatre. No. That was for the nobility. He retired with the cucumbers, bowing slightly, eager to chop the cucumbers into halves and then quarters and then eighths and then into tiny cubes, which would then be marinated in a sauce of mayonnaise and currants and apple cider and nutmeg and finely pressed garlic - all to be served on hot toast at the evening's Grand Ball.
Mrs. Lanthemum exited the garden and again lounged on the wood and leather chaise-longe that had been built especially for her by her lover, Lady Matilda Zamzam of the Crystal Coast of Norway. It was true that Lady Matilda was 43 years her senior, that her eyesight was fading, that her bosom heaved like two full witches' cauldrons and that she was gradually losing control of her sphincter, particularly after consuming the stewed prunes of which she was particularly fond. Oh but what wonderful poetry she wrote. How it was filled with the passion of French joie-de-vivre. Reading it reminded Mrs. Lanthemum of her own girlhood in London. It was a happy girlhood but a sad one too. Her father, a cruel magistrate with a position high in the church of England, had wanted his sole daughter to be an abbess. Failing that, to teach at the convent. He had arranged her to be married to Lord Byron Lanthemum, owner of the Great Lanthemum Tobacco Plantation, but it had been Lord Byron's niece that Mrs. Lanthemum loved. Oh and how terrible it had been to be caught in each others' arms at the Strawberry Festival - she with a jar of sardines, her with a silk negligee. Anastasia Corsanicko had died that very evening, punctured by a dozen bayonets thrust forward by His Majesty's own personal army. And Mrs. Lanthemum had been placed in asylum for seven years until the earthquake hit and the prison tower collapsed and Mrs. Lanthemum swam to freedom over one mile of cold and salty sea.
Lady Matilda's man had found her and, at first, thought her to be dead. It was only after coughing up a glut of seawater that he realized the awful truth and called for his Lady. Mrs. Lanthemum smiled as she remembered that day and her eyes fell to the chaise-longe, where Lady Matilda Zamzam's latest volume of poetry, entitled The Bitter Tears of the Birds of Marmaduke, rested on the left armchair.
Mrs. Lanthemum sat on the chaise-longe. She was a tall and handsome woman of 40 years and she wore a one-piece bathing suit with a pattern of black and white stripes. There was a table next to the chaise-longe and on it was a glass and a pitcher of iced tea. There was a lemon wedge stuck on to the glass rim and Mrs. Lanthemum could see droplets of lemon juice clinging to the yellow meat of the lemon.
She plucked up the book and, for the eleventh time that day, let her eyes roll over the epigram.
"This volume of poetry is dedicated to my one true love, the former Mrs. Denise Lanthemum (nee Brown.) It is my fondest wish that these poems reflect, to the casual reader, a fraction of the immense love I feel for you, dear woman. MZ."
Now Mrs. Lanthemum turned to her favourite poem, which was entitled: On Traveling to Greece With My Lady Love
Here then is the turquoize dance floor
of the Mediterreanean sea
so calm so free. No waves
to rock our boat.
And you, my love,
my lady love
so resplendent on the yacht I bought.
You in your yellow bikini
your skin brown like chocolate
your teeth white like almond milk.
I watch as you tow the rope
and the birds scream our names.
On the table in front of us
the remains of a Greek meal.
Some chunks of lamb
some tzaki sauce
fresh olives and garlic and sugared yams.
My belly jiggles as I watch
my large bosom swell with pride
that you are my lady love
and then you smile
and say that you need to use the ladies
for you are allergic to lamb souvlaki
and you are about to shit your pants.
Mrs. Lanthemum stopped reading and cast her mind back to that day, now four years ago. She had brought only one bathing suit and that was unfortunate for the bathing suit was ruined and she and Lady Matilda Zamzam had cast it into the Mediterreanean and watched it float away until it was eaten by a shark and she had spent the rest of the trip naked - except for when they stopped in Athens to take in the production of the Bacchae, in which case she'd had to wear a borrowed chiton.
Now Raoul was approaching and Mrs. Lanthemum saw that he was pulling something behind him. It was something fairly large, fairly heavy, and as he drew closer, she could see it was the corpse of her lover, Lady Matilda Zamzam.
"She died at the gate," Raoul said. "Heart attack, I think, though it may be the plague."
Mrs. Lanthemum gazed sadly down at the corpse of her lover. Already her lips were turning white and the grey hairs that once bounced so girlishly now lay dead on her brow like winter grass.
"Pity," said Mrs. Lanthemum.
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