Catalin Monroe: A Short Story

A single beam of light shone thru the curtain. The specs of dust in the room danced between the rays, whisked into the air by the pleasant breeze tip toeing thru the screen door. I could feel the warmth on my cheek as I rose from the sheets, thoroughly rested. I briskly got ready, slipping on my tennis shoes, old and worn. Stepping outside, I was greeted by the painfully sweet aroma of sweet pea flowers, entranced by the blissful gleams of sunlight, and spellbound by the familiar screeching of parrots, flocking in clouds of bright vermilion.

Next, a yellow cocktail music bursts as the cheers of people raised up into the air again. The crowd moved more swiftly around the garden, flowing, dissolving, and merging back into the same form again. The sky slowly turned orange –the sun was heavily sinking into the horizon – and Tom’s boutonniere enhanced its bloodiness and Daisy’s white dress dyed in an elegant yellow. As Tom looked over the crowd, all the immaculate white dresses that were dancing on the grass like fairies were soaked in the sunlight, each one in vivid, but lusterless colours. However, there was a ray of light that caught Tom’s eyes as he overlooked on the people. It was one of the house maids, sweeping the fallen leaves as her pale ring-finger gleamed a dull reflection of the sunshine. She was a woman with a roundish figure, probably in her early thirties. There were no traces of beauty in her appearances like Mary Pickford or a fashionable stylishness like Pola Nergi, but there was an immediate vitality that could be percept straightaway, just like Myrtle. No, exactly like Myrtle, Tom thought. There were no specific similarities between them, but Tom felt like a child who found a puzzle piece that he’s been looking for ages, or perhaps a fragment of a story from his favorite child

Lucia Zabini admired herself in the mirror as she applied the final touches of her make-up. She’d always been a vain woman, and to be fair she had a lot to be vain about. Her luscious raven locks cascaded like a waterfall down to her waist, which was a perfect hour glass. Men had always stopped to stare at her, struck dumb by her beauty, but Lucia rarely paid any attention to them; that is, unless they were rich. Lucia’s one true love was galleons, and lots of them.

When the bell rings I feel a pang rising through my pool of sadness. ‘Must go,’ Marilyn says coming to her feet. I place both my hands together on the wire mesh separating me from her and the other life, my real life. I hear a soft ‘nee, nee,’ from Frikkie. He has given me the ‘no touching’ reprimands a few times but I know that his heart wasn’t in it. How much job satisfaction could Frikkie have in his life? I imagine him at home, playing rugby with his little boys. Does he ever think of what life for inmates like me is like? No, I don’t believe he does. I hope he never thinks about me.

I turned on the light. I hadn’t been in here since the night I drew the butterfly gift. I had thought of this room often since then. Not only because of the desire to draw which burned within me, but I also hoped to return in search of the record. It had been impossible to this point for me to come here without question; my movements were monitored regularly since Frau Franke’s accusation. If not by her personally, it seemed as though she employed others in the cause. I was rarely alone.

More and more nerves overcome me the closer it is to my dance. After putting rosin on my shoes I quietly warm up my feet. There are girls around me are warming up too. We become one doing the same pattern. Going up on pointe putting one foot down, then switching. Two feet one foot, two feet there is a swishing sound from the long skirts rubbing against our legs. Two feet one foot, two feet the bird's song is playing, bright lights are following the their every movement. Two feet one foot, two feet we hear our cue and line up behind the moth eaten black curtain. Whispers of advice flow through the curtains as the music slows, then comes to a stop. The bird go to their ending spots. The lights go out they rush off stage while we rush on and begin our

6 O’clock was around the corner, and so was me about to hyperventilate my life out. I stood there, right where we agreed to meet, hounding my wrist watch, memorizing the movements to distract the tornado in my stomach. “Just be yourself, you’re sarcastic, entertaining and whimsical.” my mom told me. I remembered the famous Marilyn Monroe quote when mom mom’s words resurfaced on my mind. “If you can make a girl laugh, you can make her do anything.” Sounds simple enough, I had no idea women could be so simple and easy, being myself made this seem all too easy. I began playing the scenario of tonight in my hand, with that Marilyn Monroe quote in on my mind. As well as I remember hearing guys from school talk about their times with ladies, all

On a bright, sunny day in June of 1926 a legend was born, unbeknownst at the time. A little girl with a big future and an even bigger legacy. Although having difficult childhood, she managed to become a figure of inspiration for millions of people. Her name was Norma Jean Baker, or better known as Marilyn Monroe. Being born to Gladys Baker Mortenson had it's ups and down. As a young child of only 7 years, her mother was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia and was admitted into a mental facility. Throughout her life until the age of 16, Norma went through many foster homes and orphanages, resulting in her odd education. At the age of 16 Norma’s current foster parents had to move to California. So she would not be put back into the foster

As the flame brightened under my powerful touch, the smell of gas and burning burlap and satin invaded my nostrils. Preparing for auditions meant the banging, burning and the ripping and preparation of Pointe shoes. Being nineteen and home schooled my whole life meant I committed my life solely to dance. Seven days a week, fifteen hours a day for ten years, I have danced to sculpt my career. “Hi my name’s Victoria and I’m auditioning for the part of Odette.”

Rain pattered down against the cobblestone streets of nineteenth-century England, pooling in the dips and cracks of the uneven rocks. Each pool of raindrops reflected the light of the lanterns, each carefully lit to illuminate the way for those returning home late to their families or an empty house. There didn’t seem to be much space in between the two; either you had somebody or you didn’t. In the case of Angelica Porter, she was the latter.

The young man stood in the center of the empty cathedral. The morning sunshine still struck the floor through the snow glazed windows, and there in the light from the stained glass, Cyrus Ainsworth saw the mirage of a young woman. Unlike his ghostly and understated appearance (though not unattractive), he recalled her bold and dark features, ink on the canvas of her fair yet still warm skin. Ringing like the bells in the chapel do, he remembered her strong yet soothing voice calling out for the last time, and the detail of the way she composed her every movement with such elegance, and even when she lay motionless, it was with grace. She was truly an angel in his eyes, but an angel that had now fallen.

There really wasn’t anything more for Jack to do except sigh and run his fingers through his hair absentmindedly, a habit left over from the days when it was far longer. He eased onto his elbows, then moved forward until he was sitting up completely, stretching a body that had gone still with resignation. As much as he liked being contrary, playing by his own rules, he knew when not to push someone. He usually ignored that knowledge and pushed and pushed anyway, but he couldn’t do it to Cate. Not now. Not when she didn’t want him fighting back. He wanted what she wanted, when it came down to it. All of the fight in him, renewed by his deliberate disobedience when she had suggested he leave, dissipated the second she touched him. He was so damn

But every so often they would get out of control and she would use one of the most effective methods, her Happy Place. It was a large, open room there was one bed with nothing but shear white sheets. Beside the bed was a single insignificant sandy colored nightstand stand with a book resting crooked on its surface. In her imagination she could never picture the wall behind her, she always assumed that it was merely a vortex of infinite tranquility. She assumed the wall was a swirling doorway to some darker part of her mind. There where two walls, one was behind the bed and the other was across from it. Each wall was covered in a warm snow wallpaper with glimmering pearl Fibonacci swirls spaced out across the surface like falling rain. The floor was a light sandy color, a layer of cool fog always hung just above the surface. When she walked the fog when cling to her ankles and swirl up behind her creating small towers. The most prominent aspect was the of the third wall, or lack there of rather. Instead of an enclosed room the third wall was translucent, instead wall-to-wall ceiling-to-floor window took up the entire space. Outside, the windows where hazed over with morning mist and droplets of dew slid gently down the glass. There was a vague essence of Paris, she could just make out the Eiffel Tower. Everything outside the room was foggy, as if her eyes weren’t meant to focus on any one

Before her introduction to the world as Marilyn Monroe, she was just Norma Jean Mortenson. in 1946, the 20 years old Norma Jean separated from her husband James Dougherty. The year 1946 saw Norma Jean single. Norma Jean was planning to become an actress.

Throughout the course of an individual’s life they embark on many changes and transitions, resulting in different outcomes and the way in which they encounter these transitions differs for everyone. The video clip to the powerful song by Sia, entitled ‘Chandelier’ tells the story of a young child being neglected by her parents, therefore leading her to form fake friendships and engage in risk taking behaviours such as the use of alcohol to self-medicate. A young child embodies Sia’s character and retells her story in the form of frantic dance moves through a dilapidated apartment, representing Sia’s mind. Each separate room of the apartment comes to symbolise a different time in Sia’s life. ‘Chandelier’ strongly conveys the notion through ideas