Mistress Mace Flutterly

You don’t see me but you will
I am not invisible
I am here

~Bono “Invisible”

Don't get your panties in a knot, Mistress IK. This work is merely in progress. And the tale? Plenty of time to get weirder and perhaps creepier still.

Don’t get your panties in a knot, Mistress IK. This work is merely in progress. And the tale? Plenty of time to get weirder and perhaps creepier still.

She never realized, nor dared guess a hazard, how utterly, simply, refreshingly, strangely compellingly easy it would be to live without a face.

Once you’ve gone faceless, you never go back.

(Hmm…does that sound creepy or is it just me? And how many adverbs can I squeeze into one sentence? These, along with dozens more questions will not be answered in this tale.)

Like the many others who are not included in this doodle, Mistress Mace Flutterly has no face. Or per asp (ha! hah!) I should say, no true face of her own. She collects them, you see. Keeping them in closets, drawers, hatboxes, candy dishes, or wherever else may captivate her fancy. Sometimes she hangs them with satin ribbons, tying them into bold, beautiful, belligerent bows, making these flipping fine faces into marvelously meticulous, mythically macabre masks.

“Masks are quite useful,” Mistress Flutterly says to no one in particular, as there is no one, Dear Reader but you and I. “You never know when you might need a dozen or so.”

Not one to be wasteful, she makes use of the faces she collects: wearing this one, then that, depending entirely upon her mood.

“It is so very difficult to decide,” She sighs with mild aggravation.

So she changes them often, as another lady might change her bonnet or scarf.

“And why keep them as they are? They’re already changed from their previous form. I’ll just add a touch more elegance or perhaps a dash of glitzy bling.”

Switching from mask to mask can be great fun, but decorating them is what really fills her heart with a red velvet pleasure.

“This one deserves a slash of silver glitter across her forehead,” She may chuckle to herself.

It could be silver is not her colour of the day. Mayhap she’s in the market for a few ruby red sequins, and will painstakingly pin hundreds, each with great care to a tiny, pointy chin. Then again she may lose herself completely and positively festoon an entire visage with rare jeweled cabochons.

And of these particularly peculiarly ornamented faces, she chooses her favourites, filing them away in an onerous armor. She could never part with a one for they’re all far too adorable.

And what say you? Wouldn’t you like a spare mask or two? Mayhap you already do.

How to acquire them, you may understandably wonder. How has Mistress Mace Flutterly obtain this copious number of the best faces that she can then wear like masks and merry spacers?

I really daren’t ask, but if a lapse in judgment I should suffer, I’d be certain from these lips the truth I’d never dream to utter.

© 2015 Intricate Knot

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Let the Madness Begin…

Let the Madness Begin

And may it never end.

How boring it would be

Without Madness to send

Roaring, roaring

Around the next bend,

Straight into and through my head.

~Intricate Knot

Magdalene - Unfinished

Magdalene – Unfinished                                                                                                                                                                 Where does this stuff come from? Another time, another planet, another me…

Magdalene danced too closely to the weeds and instead of dancing away, fell head first into them. He came upon her struggling, flailing, shrieking, and cursing the weeds. And he tried, honestly tried, to check his temper even when she shouted most unkindly at the vegetation.

“She’s invading their space,” Quentin thought, “not the other way ‘round.”

He offered her a hand, but she never heard nor saw him. Too busy having a tizzy, I presume. Quentin shook his head in disgust and had decided to leave her in this muddy, tangled state, when she struck out blindly at an innocent dandelion. That wasn’t the last straw though, oh no. The last straw was when she yanked the sweet, puffy dandy-lion straight out of the ground.  For no reason, none what-so-ever.

Now she merely sits at the side of the road, bundled up tightly with all the other weeds. She’s one of them, though she’d never admit it and couldn’t even if she wanted to. Her roots run deep in the earth and do not allow for dancing. Desperately she tries to hum a tune, but alas and alack she no longer has a mouth.

Marcie the Madcap Mortician

Marcie is unusual. Yes, I know that isn’t saying much considering the title of this Chapter and the company she keeps. Read on though, before you judge.

I knew what she is (a Madcap Mortician), before I knew who she is (Marcie). As I sat in Quentin’s Blood Garden, I saw her playing in a puddle. I was and still am…captivated.

Marcie knew I was coming before I did. She tells me that she spoke to me years before I arrived at Quentin’s Plant Vampling Estate, only I’m stubborn and refuse to remember. I don’t think I’m stubborn, at all. I just know my mind. Regardless, this is her explanation as to why I titled a chapter in my journal, “The Madcap Mortician” twenty years before I’d even met Quentin. And then left exactly twenty pages of this chapter unwritten for these past twenty years…hmm…I suppose she could be on to something.

Dressed entirely in lovely, soft shades of grey (a stunning color, mind you against the blood red puddles of well, blood that she splashed in), she swung her arms and legs about in the most athletically graceful, complex, and alarming dance I’ve ever seen. And such laughter! Marcie has the best laugh, because it has the unselfconscious abandon of a child.

The way her blue-black hair stood on its ends, I thought she’d most certainly been struck by a random lightning bolt (not as uncommon as it sounds…not at Quentin’s estate, that is). Turns out not to be the case, I later discovered. Her hair is just like that. Almost as if she’s in a state of permanent fright. Once you get to know Marcie though, you know that frightened is the very last emotion she’ll feel. Marci is either very brave…else whys, very jaded when it comes to frights. She’s seen it all. I’m willing to go with both brave and jaded.

Regardless, once she spotted me sketching her, she’s given me not one moment of peace until I posted her form for all to see. Not like that! I don’t do nudes. I just do weirds. And Marcie definitely falls in that category.

So truly thrilled to be out here on the WWW, I didn’t have the heart to tell her that very little of that world actually visits my sandgrain’s place in it. Matters not to her, she says. It is the thought that counts, after all.

Madcap Marcie, there now. That wasn't so difficult, was it?

Madcap Marcie, there now. That wasn’t so difficult, was it?