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Posts Tagged ‘erotica’

The white mesh hung from the broken wedding tent like a veil, forgotten.

Her daughter became a wife a few hours earlier.

Jill was alone on the beach, now dark and silent, with the solitary boat blinking its yellow eye in a distance. The tent stood like an abandoned ship run ashore, the garland of flowers still woven over its wooden poles, the mesh curving in the wind – a damaged sail. One beam has fallen to the ground forming a giant upside down V with another. Jill picked out a few flowers. White lilies, maroon gerberas, orange birds of paradise. Why didn’t they bring them inside after the ceremony? They would have made beautiful bouquets, for her daughter’s suite, for her own room.

She remembered how Ross brought her a white rose every Sunday.  She’d still be asleep, and he’d walk in with the first rays of sun, an old aluminum tray in his hands – the one they had bought at a flea market the day they had moved in, now riddled with scratches,- a cup of coffee, a toast with jelly, and a single white rose on it. She’d stretch and smile and he’d lean over and kiss her good morning, then watch her drink the coffee.

She had since defined happiness with that moment: the first sip of coffee, her husband watching her.

When the cup was half-empty, he’d take it from her hands, and put it back on the tray, pull the sheets down. He watched her for minutes, sometimes half an hour, as she lay naked in bed, not moving, his hand gliding over her shoulders, breasts, belly, thighs. She had once asked him what he was doing. “I’m remembering you,” he’d said, “for when I’m not here.”

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Jill stood under the tent. She no longer cried. She had stopped a while back, two years to be exact. Ross had known for a while but didn’t utter a word. She blamed his paleness for sleepless nights, and his thinning body for a new diet he took to observing, welcoming his Sunday observations with eagerness. There was something exquisitely seductive and forbidden in the way he traced her collarbones and nipples, circled her belly button, never crossing into where she wanted to be. He loved her on other nights and mornings, always when she least expected, but never on Sundays. “One can’t make physical love to a Goddess,” he’d say. “This is how I worship you.”

Jill wondered if Zoe’s husband knew the art of seduction. He must have since she chose him. And who was she to worry about it – a widow, a broken ship in the desert? A decade without him. Why was she still here?

The single beam of light from the hotel’s roof cut in her eyes and she turned towards the ocean. The mesh caught her right hand and she let it. “A widow’s glove,” thought Jill as she traced individual tiny squares of the white web with her index finger and thumb.

She remembered her own wedding. Thirty years has passed, and she still felt the touch of his fingers, dry and nervous, as they traced her eyebrow after he lifted the veil. Ross looked through her, his eyes filled to the brim. Her own mother wasn’t there to see that, but she, Jill, was here for her girl tonight, her little princess now twenty-five. But Ross wasn’t. How she still missed him, every day, every morning, tonight.

She stood under the tent, inhaling the damp air, getting lost in the monotonous rumble of the waves, their drops settling on her face. Someone touched her shoulder.

“Mom, what are you doing here? Everything alright?”

She turned to face her daughter, lean and strong, a stubborn little girl with green eyes and thick flowing hair, Ross’s.

“Yes, baby. All is well. I’ll be there in a minute.”

“I want you with us, Mom. Please.”

Zoe kissed her on the forehead, and turned back, now in a cocktail dress, the gown gone, no veil.

Jill stood under the tent as if it could save her from herself; two used and broken things, now superfluous and forgotten. She untangled her hand, put a few flowers into a small bouquet. The fragrance, sweet and already rotting; some petals wrinkled, some falling. He had always called her “My flower”.

Jill picked more flowers, reached up to the horizontal beam, and tore them out, one by one, the gerberas, the lilies, the birds of paradise, her hands full, flowers falling on her shoulders, breasts, feet. She put the heap on the sand, and rushed to the left beam, untangling the leaves, tearing off the stems, cupping the flower heads. She held them all, her hands forming a giant O, her face inside the fragrant breathing sphere. The ocean lulled its song. Jill stood upright, then let the flowers fall to her feet. Her sorrow went with them. She stripped the right pole of the flowers, tore down the mesh, spread it on the sand. They were hers, Zoe’s, Ross’s. She gathered every last one on the mesh, folded its corners, made a knot. The bale was heavier than she thought, so she dragged it. She thought of knocking down the beams, their listless nakedness hovering over like a bad omen, but had no strength.

Jill entered the ballroom as the first dance was ending.

“I’m back,” she said to Zoe, and poured the flowers at her feet. “This is from Dad… He loved you more than anything.”

“Thank you, Mom.”

© Vica Miller

1/27/2013

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Photos from November 17, 2010 Salon @ William Bennett Gallery are up… Please take a look.

The next salon is planned for early February and will most likely take place at Frants Gallery Space. The one after that, in March, will be all poetry and I can’t tell you how excited I am about that.

Stay tuned for details.

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Here is what we sent to the media folks this morning. We hope they’ll find us worthy of writing up or visiting… We serve wine too.

Vica Miller Literary Salons Website Launched; Author Publishing Deal Announced

November 12, 2010 – NEW YORK CITY – Vica Miller Literary Salons, a bi-monthly chamber reading series held in select art galleries in New York City, launched its website and announced erotica as the theme of its next salon, on November 17.

The salons – a brainchild of public-relations executive and novelist Vica Miller – provide a public platform for writers, both published and not. “I wanted to create a tangible connection between writers, readers, and agents,” said Ms. Miller. “There’re so many fantastic writers worthy of being heard. For readers and audience both, it’s an electric experience. Writers say reading at the salon has rekindled their excitement about their material; audiences report witnessing a creative effort in the unusually intimate setting.”

While the salons don’t address the hardships of getting published, nor aim to sell books for published authors, two writers recently secured representation as a result of readings at the salon. Molly Lyons of Joëlle Delbourgo Associates signed author Janet Goss shortly after hearing her read the opening chapter from her novel “Off the Grid” at the June 15, 2010 salon. Last week, New American Library, a division of Penguin Group, agreed to publish both that title and a second novel, already in progress.

“Vica is a superwoman, so when she invited me to share my work at her salon, she didn’t have to ask twice,” said Janet Goss. “But to wind up with both an agent and a two-book deal mere months after the fact is truly a life-changing event, one I couldn’t be more grateful for.”

Launched in April of 2009 and touted as “a magical space in which to read”, salons are held in private art galleries and feature four writers per evening, varying genres and themes every time. “I wanted to recreate the atmosphere of the salons of late-19th century St. Petersburg,” said Ms. Miller, a native of the Russian city. “I’m lucky to have some of the finest art galleries – Susan Eley Fine Art, William Bennett, Lyons Wier – as my hosts and a solid network of gifted writers and serious readers.”

The next salon will be held on November 17 at William Bennett Gallery, with readings by Tina Barry, Stephanie Hopkins, Vica Miller, and Laurie Silver. RSVP essential to attend. Details at http://www.vicamillersalons.com

Media Contact:
Vica Miller
media@vicamillersalons.com

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