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I thought that was a Picasso for a moment there ... that's incredible! Very talented!


“Petit, you practice so long I wonder that your lovely voice doesn’t rebel and leave you.”

Camille's lemon-drop hair pirouetted around her shoulder in response to the voice behind her. It was Madame Chagalle, slender and inquisitive. Madame’s willowy form contorted like a tree girding itself against a strong gust of wind as she regarded her charge’s form in front of the mirror.

“My voice is a patient lover who tolerates all of my dalliances, yet always welcomes me when I come walking in after a night of debauchery,” Camille noted with a slight, devilish smile. “I must sing long and loud to compensate.”

“Rest the voice and limber the body,” Madame intoned in that stern yet compassionate manner that alternately irritated and energized Camille.

“Very well,” Camille sighed, walking gracefully to the massive glass doors to the left of her mirror. She brushed a boisterous tentacle of golden hair away from her right eye and opened the window latch. The panes surged forward onto the patio, and the girl strode out onto the marble.

The moon glowered down upon her, one strand of nimbus cloud furtively dragging across the lunar eye. Yes, she still sung like four hundred bells tolling, tinkling, and chiming in perfect synergy. But Camille hadn’t been outside the house in a fortnight. It was time.

Her diaphanous gown slid lazily from her smooth shoulders. She stepped out from the garment gathered at her feet like a slender reptile emerging from a newly-shorn skin. Arms outstretched, she stepped onto the patio rail: Paris, its myriad lights puncturing the symmetry of darkness below, stared up at her with collective interest. Camille rolled her shoulders, looking up at the voyeur moon. Then her wings—opaque and filigreed like stained-glass windows—slid out from beneath her shoulder blades. Madame may look like an insect, but I am one, Camille thought proudly.

Camille stepped from the rail into the open air, and—wings purring against the Parisian night—flew.

Adam Smith

Walter Sickert critiques the visual narrative of high fashion?

Something in this puts me in mind of his work.


mmmmmm me love ribs
a new fashion a holocaust style !!! indeed


i love this one!
great work!


You're right! They do look like a Praying Mantis. Ugh! Give me real women in my fashion magazines, I'm tired of these poor women starving themselves to make me think I need to drop 15 pounds.

Nice job! Love the colors too. :)

No wonder she eats the male after mating... she's hungry! God, that's hard to watch.

Demon Kitty

Some of them do look like praying mantises. Did I spell that correctly? Honestly, I do enjoy looking at models, I think they are gorgeous. I wish the fashion world would just feature models and NO CELEBRITIES. We have Anna Wintour to thank for that bullshit!


Love those ribs!

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