The planet has gone, what a shame!
Who could the humanity blame?
The Grim Reaper has done his job,
He didn't learn that on-the-job!
He killed everyone;
The work is done:
Each animal, each plant, each life.
He needed a big reaper, not a knife.
He killed the lesser life on Earth:
The cradle which gave the humanity birth!
They didn't respect their house,
The ravens warned them to be careful.
It was no use to be prayerful:
The punishment they deserve, they roused!
He had succeeded. The Kingdom was finally saved.
Riding his faithful steed, he took one last look back. In this city and its cobbled streets, in this castle which established itself as an indisputable and superior master, like a medieval Tower of Babel, he had narrowly escaped death and dishonor.
At dawn, he got up, a little nervous but eager to get it over with, listening to the trumpets of the enemies who were getting ever closer. The Nargals were far from stupid and had almost succeeded in trapping him when the war began, but he had studied them for a long time and knew their hunting techniques.
He had called on the most ancient powers to get out of it. A flash of fire suddenly illuminated his pupils and his strength increased tenfold. Brandishing his sword, he ran up to their leader and cut off his head without hesitation. He had finally achieved his goal.
Shadow demons would not rule here.
He looked away and thought about his next mission. What dark forces should he face this time ?
Evil was everywhere, and he thought of his beloved waiting for him somewhere, hidden with the rest of humanity's survivors in the Andromeda galaxy, counting on him and his colleagues from the Homeland to save this world, the cradle which gave birth to humanity.
She slammed the door, locked it off. Entered the living-room, threw her purse on the sofa, kicked her high heels off and left the room.
She headed towards the dimly-lit bathroom, peed in the dark. The digital clock was on.
Bridget squinted so as to guess what time was hiding behind the red halo.
23:38? 22:58?
‘Fucking Fifties’, she groaned.
She stood up, took off her tights and hobbled towards the sink. Turned on the light and started removing her make-up.
As applying the cleansing milk on a cotton pad, she began to calculate.
£149 for those bloody shoes which had blistered her feet with so much cruelty.
Plus £75 for the magical hyaluronic serum, which was supposed to lighten up her complexion.
Plus £96 for the new haircut, which she would never be able to maintain on her own.
Plus £224 for the evening dress, whose spectacular neckline would undoubtedly blow his mind, as asserted by the saleswoman.
Her eyes casually fell on her décolleté, crudely reflected by the mirror. Her décolleté, then her neck, then her face. She suddenly lost count of her expenses and slowly felt overwhelmed by a rising tide of anger and despair.
How could she be so naive? Why on earth did she accept such a humiliating idea? What could she really expect from a blind date, at almost 52?
She had never felt so bad in her whole life. So bad and so lonely. Even after their divorce. Even during their marriage.
She was cleansing her face, now, standing in front of the mirror. Some milk remover was covering her cheeks. A grumpy old lady was watching her, clenching teeth, holding up the pads.
Then Bridget remembered. She remembered everything, and suddenly felt tears running down her greasy face. She remembered their joy, their laughter, as visiting London together. She remembered the National Gallery. She remembered that portrait of an old grotesque woman. She remembered how much they both laughed about that Ugly Duchess, who was looking down upon their brand new love. Now, she was looking at Bridget... with a most satirical smile.
Did you ever wonder what Mona Lisa would be like, if Leonardo Da Vinci had not been a painter… but a writer?
What kind of adventures would she experience as being the heroine of a fairy tale, for instance? Would she be the very picture of innocence… or of evil?
And what if she were the fruit of Stevenson’s imagination? Could she be Dr Mona and Mrs Lisa?
For sure, she would not keep such a gentle and charming smile, trapped in a Stephen King’s novel… unless she had to play the dreadful role of a psychotic murderer…
If we just try to go beyond the usual frame, so many different lives, so many fragmented stories, so many patched tales may arise from any famous paintings.
‘Patched tales’ is therefore the name we chose to give to this brand new adventure we are about to share with you in our blog. One single picture may lead to multiple and unexpected tracks : follow us on those literary paths of creativity!
Who are we?
The four of us chose different tracks, too, coming from different places, living different lives. One of us comes from the Aude, one from the Aveyron, one from the Drôme, one from the Var. The youngest of us is 21, the oldest is almost 50.
Different and remote places leading us all to distance learning in the University of Montpellier, where we are all taking different courses, such as Modern Literature, Language sciences and modern Greek..
What rules us all? Reading! And writing the kind of stories that we would enjoy reading.
What kind of stories? Any kind! Dramas, tales, novels, poetry, historical or dystopian narratives, science fiction short stories, press articles, whatsoever!
Our favourite stories are 1984, by George Orwell, Flowers for Algernon by Daniel Keyes, Ubik by Philip K. Dick and the Northern lights, a trilogy by Philip Pulman.
We are all eager to start this new creative challenge altogether!
