It's what you've been waiting for... Twenty eight days of dark fiction and poetry from fourteen of the best women writers I have had the pleasure to meet in the virtual world. I am proud that so many took up my private invitation to contribute to the showcase. Thank you, you marvellous creatures of the pen.
Our very first Femme Fatale is Susan May James. Susan only began contributing to my weekly Prediction challenge back in November 2010, yet it feels as though she's been part of The Feardom for ages.
I love Susan's edgy wit and acerbic observations. The style and subject of her story here, Shadows reminds me of one of my favourite authors, Joanne Harris. I hope you enjoy it.
Shadows by Susan May James
Every day late in the afternoon the light shifts so as to cast shadowed stripes across the small damp cell. Ten stripes in all; eight are perfectly formed and cover half the cement floor while the other two stretch, distorted, up the wall. The shadows are an essential part of Magdalene’s day as they are the only method by which she can discern the time. Often as the light changes, Magdalene sinks to the floor where she sits cross-legged, her palms facing up. Slowly she passes her hands through the shadowed pattern, playing with the darkness as the sounds of Venice drift through the open window. The drone of tourists melts into the sound of lapping water while somewhere in the distance motor-boats hum and vaporetti thump against their docks. Soon the shadows will blur into dusk and it will be time to begin her daily preparations. With a sigh she stretches out her legs, relishing the coolness seeping into her bones. You should be thankful you are spared the scorching midday sun. Dario’s dismissive words, spoken with the threat of the temper and penchant for violence for which he is renowned, are etched into her memory; as if this one point should make up for the tedium and degradation of the girls’ lives.
All of a sudden Magdalene hears a screech as the metal lock slides open and she hastens to stand up. With her head lowered she follows Matron into what they refer to as the marble room. There she joins three other girls, each languishing in a deep bath. Matron leaves and as Magdalene disrobes a hush falls over the room. The other girls do not befriend her. Aware of their differences they whisper and giggle as Magdalene lowers herself into the large tub. She doesn’t blame them for their jealous behaviour. They are all foreigners passing through this city, ill-fated and vulnerable, although Dario often tells her that she is more fortunate than the others and, providing she obeys and puts in her time, her passport will soon be returned.
Baths finished, the three girls dress in short skirts and skimpy halter tops. They snicker when Matron carries in an armful of gold brocade and mauve satin. A masquerade ball gown fashioned after those of the nineteenth century, complete with full hoop skirt and lace trimmed sleeves. Magdalene looks at it with trepidation. Its heavy fabric and tight bodice will weigh her down and crush her ribs, making her performance in the orchestra difficult and exhausting.
The others leave, their heels clicking, as Matron dusts Magdalene’s face with powder and carefully nestles a bow in the tendrils that flow down her back.
“You know what to do,” Matron finally speaks to her as she hands her the cello and a pointed Venetian mask. Magdalene nods. After the concert, seek out one of the older gentlemen, flirt and proposition; get paid and fleece him for as much as possible. Move on to the next.
“Remember, cash is best, don’t bother with travellers’ cheques, they’re not worth the trouble, get plastic and be sure to learn the pin numbers. Watch over their shoulder as they pay or withdraw money; use your wiles, whatever it takes.” Matron issues the instructions while leading her down the hallway.
As Magdalene passes an open door, a small boy looks up from where he sits at a table. A colouring book is open in front of him and he clutches a thick crayon. “Mama?”
Her heart racing she stops but Matron grabs her by the wrist.
“You can see the boy when you return,” she says as she holds the door open and pushes her out into the shadows.
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Bio:
SUSAN MAY JAMES is a Canadian-born writer living in London. She writes flash fiction, short stories and is currently working on a novel. Her other passions include travel, photography and history and she can be found scribbling and scattering on her blog; Scribble & Scatter.
