Kandake

Our assignment this week was to create and develop a character sketch using a third-person narrative. Meet Kandake.

Kandake paused on the threshold. Behind her the sun-baked village sprawled in the heat of the morning; her home for the fourteen years of her life. Before her, in the cool chamber, stood the man who would be her husband. Not a marriage of love, nor one of convenience, instead the consequence of generations of war and political conniving.

Remnants of her breakfast remained stuck in her throat, refusing to go down, making her wish for a sip of sweet water from the well. Although out of sight, Kandake could hear the whispers of her mother and aunts, and the grunts of her soon-to-be mother-in-law as they awaited their summons in the cool shade of the Acacia tree.

A firm nudge in the small of her back propelled Kandake forward. She tilted her head of neat plaited coils, decorated with colourful beads, and inhaled, straightening her shoulders. She pulled her belly tight and with a gentle sway of her generous hips entered the room, her bare feet whispering on the hard floor as she walked.

Dark faces crowded the shadows of the curved wall, their voices a baritone thrum, amplified by the rush of blood in her ears as both fear and excitement churned within her. Natek, her betrothed, stood in the centre of the chamber, tall and fearsome in his ceremonial regalia, his dark skin gleaming in the shaft of sunlight cast from the doorway.

Kandake avoided his eyes, lowering her gaze to his feet, also bare and coated in fine dust, his ankles adorned with ceremonial beadwork. She took her place, petite beside the bulk of him, and pressed her sweating palms against the firm flesh of her long naked legs, the tips of her fingers caressing the soft weave of the cloth which concealed her femininity from inquisitive eyes.

Silence fell, except for a few shuffles and a stifled cough, the atmosphere thick with anticipation and heat.

Natek stepped forward, moving his staff from his left hand and gripping it in his right, tapping it on the earthen floor. Kandake knew what to do, her duty engrained in her since girlhood by the steady, unsympathetic hands of both her and Natek’s mother. She stepped up to him, her elbow touching his, every muscle in her body taut.

Natek passed the staff to an elder. He lifted his hands to his twisted gold necklet and removed it, turning to Kandake and placing it around her neck, his thumbs caressing the soft ebony skin of her elegant neck. A shiver trickled across her flesh and her breath caught in her throat as their eyes met, his gentle where she’d expected callousness.

Natek took his place and brought his arm around Kandake’s waist, pulling her against him as he guided her to the doorway, beyond which the villagers, and travellers from across the kingdom, gathered, their ululation rising to a high-pitched howl as they thronged to meet their King and his new bride, the Queen Kandake.

Conflicting Stereotypes

Geraldine puckered her red lips and blew a kiss at her reflection as she peeled a yellow post-it off the mirror and held the sticky square of paper between her glossy fingernails.

The audience loved you, the message read. Dropping the note she slid her fingers into the blonde mass of hair and lifted it.

The second best part of the night for Shane was hanging up Geraldine’s garish frock and kicking off her high heels. “That’s showbiz,” he whispered, wiping away foundation and mascara with a wet wipe.

“You stopping for a drink, honey?” Doris, in full regalia, called as Shane passed.

He shook his head and blew a kiss which she made a dramatic lunge at, catching the invisible token before it hit the floor. Doris knew he wouldn’t stay.

From the hallway Shane could see a warm slither of light on the stairwell ceiling. He hooked his jacket over the newel post and careful not to make a noise took the stairs two at a time. In their cramped bedroom Daniel’s night light glowed beside the camp cot which had been his bed for longer than Shane cared to think about.

“He missed you reading his bedtime story,” whispered Claire, coming up behind him and sliding her arms around his waist. “And you smell of smoke and cheap perfume.”

Shane snorted a laugh. “You’ll all thank me for it when we have enough cash to put the deposit down on our own place.” He turned and wrapped his arms around Claire, breathing in the baby smell of Daniel on her blouse.

What did it matter that he was a bin man by day and a drag queen by night. Coming home to his family was the best time of the day.

Story Threads

POW WW2

No light penetrated the damp filthy bamboo cage. My starved gut retched at the vile stench left behind by previous occupants, my flesh in spasms against the crawling lice. Beyond the terror, the pain of my infected sores tore cries of anguish from my cracked lips and parched throat. I could feel the rattan ties beginning to dry, cutting through my flesh and sinew. I choked a hopeless sob, no thoughts of glory days. There would be no rescue, no relief. In the putrid dank I longed for delirium and the final darkness that would set me free.

~ ~

Sun Rising in a Sea of Flames

The rising sun shimmered in a sea of flame, the convulsing atmosphere searing, devouring all within its blistering haze. For millennia humans have used fire to hunt and ravenously consume the land. Though, where man’s hungry consumption eviscerates, fire’s devastation regenerates. 

~ ~

Masks

The heavy swish and scuff of his waxed overcoat woke me from a restless slumber. The fire had burnt low, but retained enough of a glow to cast shadows upon the night-hued walls. On the stinking straw covered floor I huddled beneath my worn blanket feigning sleep with a rhythmic wheeze as his ominous cane tapped and scraped, jabbing at huddled bodies, seeking the plagued. From beneath hooded eyelids I gauged the progress of the beaked arbiter of despair, his presence emitting a cloying vapour of clove and camphor.

My Galway Girl

This week's writing prompt was to turn on the radio and take note of the first thing mentioned. 

No way was the radio was going to inspire me to write a 500-word story. I turned it on to the strains of Ed Sheeran’s Galway Girl. I wiggled in my chair to the rhythm and tapped my feet to the tune. It was going to be a long wait.

The audacious blank page lay on the table as Ed rapped and crooned.

Then, an unexpected image of my Galway girl formed, raven-haired with eyes green as spring leaves, tapping her foot as she played her fiddle with a frenzied passion.

~ ~ ~

Bridget is a bonnie girl, raven-haired and eyes green as spring leaves. Her bracelets jingle as she plays her fiddle, her body possessed by a frenzied passion as her favourite purple skirt flows and billows around her slender legs, her foot tapping a frantic jig to the melody.

It’s early doors, but the bar fills, the reeling tune side-tracking passers-by who feel the inexplicable need to join in the raucous dance. Mesmerised, I stare, tapping my foot in time with hers, helpless against the whirling music and the squeal of her fiddle.

She lifts her eyes. Sparkling and feverish they seek me out, holding my gaze for a rapturous moment before a curtain of dark hair obscures her face and the rhythm slows and fades to deafening applause and whoops of appreciation.

I watch as she adjusts the waistband of her twisted skirt, then lowers her fiddle to its case, her long pale fingers caressing the gleaming wood, like stroking the face of a dear old friend.

Her eyes search for mine and she comes across, leaning against me, her musky scent mingled with the smell of beer and smoke, and strawberry shampoo, cloying and familiar.

Her thumb strokes my fingers as she lifts the beer glass from my hand and takes it to her mouth, swallowing the golden liquid as she watches me. She smiles then leans close, pressing her full warm wet lips against the corner of mine with a kiss full of promise

“I finish at eleven, you know,” she says, her voice husky with desire.

I smile and slide a finger under a strand of her hair, pushing it behind her ear as I tug her closer. She tilts her head to my hand and l can feel her hot breath caress the flesh of my neck, raising goose bumps on my arms and down my back.

The band reassemble, sending Bridget anxious glances as they take up their instruments. She slides her hand into mine and squeezes as the pianist taps out a ditty. The anticipation of the audience is like static electricity before a thunderstorm. I squeeze back and let go.

“I love you, Englishman,” she says across her shoulder as she pushes herself away from me and takes up her fiddle, her eyes gleaming with delight. For all her cockiness, my Bridget is just a Galway girl with a fiddle, a long way from home.

My Mistake

Amidst the glamour and fanfare I catch a glimpse of a fine creature, seated in a pose of feminine grandeur. Whether by way of the dimmed house lights, or flickering candles, the shadows fall upon her features like gentle feathered strokes.

Battling between the throng, the vision of my lady weaves in and out of sight, the distance between us retreating. Her pale golden head leans in as others share a plight, and laughter peels, her eyes dancing with delight.

At last the crowd dissolves. Mere steps within reach of the hub of tassel, corset and organza clad dancing ladies. Fine boned specimens, their limbs of muscle throbbing and firmly heeled.

Her plumed head bowed, my amour’s fine cheek bones sparkle of stage powders, and those full lips glisten a berry red smile. A graceful hand of painted nails presses to her sturdy chin and tilts to behold the blossom I proffer.

Then, comprehension ignites and oh my God, the lady is no more, for six foot two, with Adam’s apple and graceless build she stands to take my hand.

In haste, retreating to the shadows, to struggle with control, I snatch the blossom to my chest, and blame the dull décor. “Forgive me, ma’am,” I’m want to blurt, flushed with such discomfort, “I’ve misidentified you somehow. My mistake.”