Vintage Vixen

Pin Me Down...

Fri, 22 Aug 2008 14:46:49 -0700

Like a cherry coke with extra cherry, she bounces into the theatre with a smile and all the right moves. He watches every step and every bounce and thanks God for the gift of sight. Locked in tight, his eyes follow the curves his hands wish they could touch. She sits in the row across from him, knowing full well that her admirer will now be watching her instead of the movie.

One Glove at a Time...

Mon, 11 Aug 2008 09:19:14 -0700

by Rosanna Carlucci
The jukebox was broken and the crowd restless. No music meant more talk, and talk was cheap. The joint was full of dames and no “good boys” who thought they were men. The night was coming to an end and just as I was about to leave, a tall drink of water in a dark suit strutted in through back door.

He meant business- I could tell. He came close-real close and leaned in against the bar. “Going somewhere?” he asks, coy smile intact. I slowly remove my gloves and sit back down. I can tell he wants to play and I am game.

Into the Wild...

Tue, 29 Jul 2008 11:17:11 -0700

by Rosanna Carlucci
The rain came down hard that night, real hard. She found him sitting in their favourite café, waiting. His dark eyes brooding over a cup of coffee- black no sugar. As she walks towards him, his anger is palpable. She forces her way through it and sits down.

Tie me up…

Mon, 21 Jul 2008 11:21:56 -0700

by Rosanna Carlucci
The station is crowded. The smell of cheap cologne and cigarettes fills every corner and hallway, making it impossible to breathe. He leans casually against the wall, like a man just minding his business, waiting.

And then like a bolt of lighting, he sees her. She makes her way through the crowd, their eyes meet and they both nod to acknowledge each other. As she gets closer the air slowly fills with the scent of lilac and roses. The setting sun filters through the station windows and seems to cast a warm glow across her face.

Nine to five...

Mon, 14 Jul 2008 15:10:33 -0700

by Rosanna Carlucci
There is a lowly hum. She sits, uncomfortably, in a crowded, gray office and stares longingly at the man before her. He is reading over her memo, checking for grammar and spelling. She assures him that after four years of writing memos she is more than capable; he laughs. He stares straight into her eyes and assures her that after four years of proof reading her memos there is always room for improvement. She laughs and shifts nervously back and forth, breaking the stare. She always breaks the stare.

Diamond Girl

Fri, 4 Jul 2008 12:08:10 -0700

by Rosanna Carlucci
The clock on the wall strikes ten. It’s show time. She adjusts her costume one last time and scurries for the stage. Poured into a creation of feathers and crystals she still manages to shine in the darkness, waiting for her cue. Her hair is set and her lips are painted with her signature red. Her heart vibrates in her chest with excitement and anxiety, like a million drums beating at the same time. She waits.

Forbidden Fruit

Jimmy — Tue, 24 Jun 2008 14:17:24 -0700

by Rosanna Carlucci
Everyone who is “anyone” is there, from the highbrow suits and their cookie cutter wives to their secretary lovers who pretend to be “just friends”. Each of them push into some stiff upper class joint like a bunch of white-collar rats in suits and dresses. The fear and loneliness hide behind each fake laugh and smile. Every glass of champagne seems to make the time pass and the hypocrisy less visible.

No Place Like Home

Wed, 18 Jun 2008 12:40:12 -0700

by Rosanna Carlucci

The night air was thick and heavy; she found it hard to breathe. The ground beneath her was wet with rain and tears, but she didn’t care, she had had enough. Each alley way and nightclub knew her name; she was the lady who sang the blues, the lady with the ruby red shoes.

Everyone had thought she was a fool, leaving it all behind for a sweet talking saxophone player she hardly knew. The beat of her quickened pace against the pavement reminded her of the night they found each other, both running from the rain in a crowded bus shelter. The same night she sold her soul for a broken microphone and a drunken crowd in some club across town, just to be with him.

Bon Voyage

Mon, 9 Jun 2008 12:10:32 -0700

by Rosanna Carlucci

She pushed him away with all the strength she had left. An afternoon of tousled sheets and champagne kisses left her listless and defeated. She couldn’t do it anymore. He fell to his knees; he was begging this time. She knew it had to end, it wasn’t right. He clung to her thighs like a prisoner begging for redemption, praying that she would change her mind. She just stood there, her red luggage clutched firmly in her hand. The image reminded him of that day at the train station where he missed his train but gained a lover.

Birds of a Feather...

Mon, 2 Jun 2008 13:59:47 -0700

by Rosanna Carlucci

Bright lights, big noise. The curtain pulls back to reveal a bevy of showgirls. They seem to pulsate with the kind of energy one would expect from a neon sign. In a womb of dim red lighting, feather boas, and broken hearts, they sashay from one mirror to the next. Like painters and sculptors, they apply and reapply their lotions, powders, lashes and rouge. Covered in sequins and pearls, each girl flounces about in her costume like a bird whose wings have been clipped. The glamour is overwhelming, hitting anyone who walks in like a wave of diamonds.