Beauties And Beasts [written by Black Orchid&Shia,idea by Shia - summary inside]

[Shia]

SUMMARY:
Story of a divorced aunt who suddenly had to become a single mother, and a divorced man who met her on the Internet
- at least he thought so... :)


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'Hi dear All,

Let me tell you a little about my life, because I think this will be more talkative than any other introduction I could ever compose, I'm quite a shy person, so I think I rather choose storytelling.

Next year it's gonna be my 40th birthday. I know, perhaps this doesn't sound good in a topic like this, 'Divorced and looking', as maybe it is already too late for me for a restart but at least I give it a shot. Life taught me how to give a try to restart things, more than well.
As for these lessons, I've regretted those second chances I gave to my ex husband as he's never learnt from them. But I'm grateful each and every for those I gave to my niece after she returned from coma.
Sometimes the walls we're about to climb fall upon us - this is what literally happened to my little one when they were practicing with their mountain climbing team, all of them under twenty and their trainer, pearl of tutors and humans. All of them dead now as I write these lines, except my child, who's gonna stay a child forever. But I'm at peace with this. However I think I'll be never be at peace with those painful looks on other parents' faces as we gathered in the hospital, once that cliff collapsed, burrying our pasts forever... 

That was the day when my husband began to actually leave me. It's so strange, isn't it?, that we vow 'in good times and in bad', but when it's about somebody else's very bad days - sometimes, as ego games are revealed we must admit that we married the wrong person. Of course, it didn't start at the ICU unit /most of the stories only culminate or end at that place as I've got it.../.
I can't have a baby and my husband cheated on me. More times. That's the truth, and that I was so sticked to my married reality that I made myself blind, and what's worse, I even thought this is the best thing to do and that I'm the smartest wife in the world.
But there, in front of our niece's hospital room, as I watched him looking through the window - I only saw panick and honest desire to escape. And on the second day and on the third, and on each day when he decided not to come and I was sitting at her bedside alone all nights long, talking to her, for the first time giving thanks my sister didn't have to see it, as she passed away years ago. Cancer.   
Since that accident between the mountains I've read and looked through many books, I ate and eat everything that offers a better understanding of happenings and characters in our lives, and in one book evolving kharma and such topics I learnt souls who can not accept a tragic loss many times end up as victims of something tragic. Was my niece one of these cases?... I'm often wondering about questions like this, not because I'm unable to love her the way she is, but because: if it's true, then we should do everything we can to ease pain around us, in any form.

Oh, I know, I know, maybe I'm an oddbug :), sorry if I'm just rumbling around, but spirituality is an important part of my life. Just like art. My profession is engaged with arts, I work for a famous museum and many more smaller ones, exhibition halls and galeries. Somehow I must earn a living as I've lost the chance to get alimony - she wasn't my husband's blood relative and court didn't care about MY mothernal feelings, only his lawyer. 
Well, here we live, two years after my divorce, just the two of us plus Mimi, our help at the house. Actually she's much more, also a grandmother, a friend, a driver, a teacher - but she says it's the best for her: us. So I just love us.
But recently I was thinking a lot about a man, a man who could also love us, who loves family, who loves children and life and colours... IF he exists...

I'm glad to find this topic. It's already a bit easier, reading about your problems and what's more important: optimism!
'We, divorced people'... not a fortunate title to use, but anyway,
thanks for reading and for creating this place :)


Trojan Queen'

[Black Orchid]

He never thought he would be here, at a place such as this, though he never thought he would do a lot of things that he did, so who's to say this was an exception. Maybe him thinking this was for the fact that he wasn't supposed to be here, in a place like this, well, that was what the priest told him, what his ex wife told him. She made a promise to him, that he'd never be here, she looked him in the eyes, while making a promise—the promise to have and to hold from that day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish; from that day forward until death do they part—place the band on his finger, and they both sealed it with a kiss. Well, he wasn't dead, and nether was she, so why was he here. He blamed her for being here, though in all technicalities, it was her fault for being here, but maybe it was his too; he treated her well, he loved her back, and there was no infidelity within the marriage, well, not on his part, he was sure of, so why did it go so wrong?

He should have seen this coming, actually, she kvetch about how she didn't like that he quit his job to pursue his writing dream, or that he would spent a good portion of the paycheck on his muse, she would always remind him of how strange his stories were, and how sad and pathetic it was that he wrote them. He wrote children books, not the novels that the children of today was accustomed to, but the books that parents would read to the child at night, or even just to past the time while they sat at a cozy comfortable place. He quit his job for that, and that's how his ex wife said it, but with more of a scoffing and satire question like tone.

Of course he back talked her, said she should be happy that her job now held some form of prestige—did anyone know that a telemarketer could get so pissy? Well they can, and they can also kick you out of the house... well, if you lived with one; good thing is that they let you back in, but not before burning your shit. At least she didn't get his muse, or his pages, he didn't know what he'd do if she did that. Well, obviously that last saying was a threat, or so she said in court; she used a lot of things in court, his drastic job switch, his muse, his chauvinist thoughts—was it wrong to want a wife that didn't have to hold the pressure of work on her shoulders?

He was completely respectful about it, it's not that he wanted his women barefoot, naked, and over a stove making his dinner, he was just raised in a household with a mother who made sure the house didn't fall apart, papered his lunch, and kept him in line half the time, with a father who handled the work and made sure they were able to live comfortable. His mother could pick up a job at anytime—especially with her English degree—but she felt that no job meant more time with her children, was it biased to adapt the same life style? Well, he guess he didn't have to, now that the tables were turned and he was a househusband—though that pissed her off too—she says that it was only a man's way of being lazy.

He couldn't forget the real reason why it was his fault—of course above was not his imputation—she knew from when they met, in the cafe, ten years ago of his dreams, of what he wanted in a wife, and what his future job would be, but obviously none of that matter after they married, but they managed to ignore it—he couldn't say work through it, because an agreement was never made. No, the reason she finally filed for a divorce was because of the little trip he decided to take... without her... for six months.

One day, they got into an argument, this one was not about the bills, or how his papers were taking over the floor in their bedroom, or even his muse, it was about children, and why she didn't want any. “Why would I need children when I have you?” if it sound romantic, it wasn't, she was referring to his “callow” behavior, well, at least she didn't say “Who needs kids when they're married to Peter Pan.” which is the statement she'd use whenever he's asked before. She'd pull out her birth control, look him in the eyes, and say it, shortly after popping it into her mouth. But he'd rather have the “Peter Pan” comment than the “you” one, because when she said “you”, in that tired, annoyed, satire tone she acquired over the years, it hurt more, it felt like she was tired of him, annoyed of him, regretful of him.

So when night fell, he put on some clothes, collected his many papers, grabbed all of his muse, took his best shoes, along with five hundred dollars, and let his legs do the work, so two cab, one phone call, and a plan ride later, he found himself searching for his soul deep down in Hawaii with the natives. Boy did that get his wife going! First day she didn't call, but when it struck twelve, his cellphone was suddenly blasting with calls, filling up with messages, but he answered none and erased each. It took ten days to give up, ironic how it matched her love for him; what he was most shock about was that it took six months for a lawyer to come knocking on the door of his beach cottage to give him the papers on his divorce.

So here he was, in a place he never thought he'd be, it felt a little strange, and to be honest a little depressing, it kept reminding him of reality, that this was really true. It hurt to know it was real, but he allowed his body to move on it's own, his eyes moved back and forth, surveying the room and the words in front of him, his mouth twitched in an attempt to smile, but smiling needed his attention, and that was something he didn't own right now. He didn't realize his fingers was moving until he hit the “SUBMIT” button. Well, it was done, and now all he had to do was wait.

'Dear Trojan Queen,

It's okay to be shy, it makes people want to figure you out, like a mystery novel, and the people you meet are the detective, as you probably can tell, I have a passion in storytelling, so your already calling out to me. Happy year early birthday, don't worry, I will be forty five next year, so your not the oldest here, and neither am I! I am sorry to hear about you niece, I feel happy that you are there for her even through her condition, so you should feel great, not many people can handle such a horrible situation, and I'm sorry your husband was one of them.

You speak of karma? A subject that has fell into many of my writings, it is an interesting thing, no? Karma is always confused as a punishment for past actions, but others don't notice that it can also be just a harsher path to good things, the path is made difficult because our bodies and mind or weaken by these bad actions that caused karma to rise, and we can only strengthening it by traveling through an obstacle. Her karma might have lead to a difficult life, but the outcome was having such a loving aunt to hold hands with her though it.

I can't say that I have done anything as great as you have, besides my books, but that's nothing to match up to what your doing as an aunt—a mother—I can tell you that left me to think about my own life and situations, and how much doing things for others can change a life for the better; I'm sure your niece, and sister, appreciate it.

I've enjoyed reading your story, and I'd love to write about it, but for now I must cut this message short before I seem to personal. I'm sure your message box is flooded, seeing as your husband is the only fool that would let a creative, caring woman like yourself go. I request that you review my profile, because I have a feeling that we will have more in common than I think.

Ball Jointed Book'

[Shia]

Hawaiian Cape, 18th century; pueo feathers tied on netting... Lei Hulu (feather lei), Hawaiian Islands, 19th century... Kapa Kilohana (Bark Cloth), Hawaii, 19th century...

Her eyes were scanning the colourful objects, one after the other, without understanding the meaning of letters placed under these treasures prepared for the eager looks of a future audience. Then when the next artwork came... Akua Kaʻai (stick image), late 18th-early 19th century, it couldn't avoid her grab, ten very excited fingers folded around the wooden sculpture, ready to make their own discoveries, the monster-like figure leaving its well deserved place and peacefully descending from the stand, in front of the scenery of bamboo walls and large hand-painted materials. They say every exhibition has its own life, now it seemed to be especially true for this one...

"Lara!" The middle aged woman, the only woman and the one who was wearing jeans and T-shirt amongst the few other people there -elegant appearance plus expressions of upset horror- rushed there and quickly quit this strange, slow maiden's attempts to explore their quality work in her own way.
"Lara dearest, you remember what I've told you about touching things without permission?.. We don't act like that, right?..."
From that pure face and pair of deep blue eyes she only got a soft smile and a long, confused gaze - but what she got from her superiors was hard to forget for the rest of the day.
"Wait a minute! You dragged me in on Sunday, while I planned to take my niece to a trip between the mountains, to tell me that tomorrow, instead of a commonly beloved and highly respected professor some hippy writer's gonna open my exhibition, only because he spent something like a year there, dangling his feet in seawater?! Nonsense!"
Helena tried to stand for her right till the very end, her chestnut brown curls dancing around her oval face as her loud words echoed in the hall... but truth was by the time she arrived there - it was all decided, question was not a question anymore.

"It's always men making decisions above your head!" - she hissed as they were escaping from this artistic hell, dashing hand in hand back to the jeep.
Only that another pure outburst of a child's love was able to make her day again, once they got inside the car and she felt Lara's embracing arms around herself again, the same brownish tones of their hairs mingling, only one was straight while the other curling cheerfully.
"Club of bastards!" Helena added and sighed, rubbing this eighteen year old back, before she made the engine start and mopped a wandering teardrop from her cheek...

[Black Orchid]

He was slightly disappointed when he had to leave Hawaii, lot's of colors and a beautiful atmosphere, he didn't understand why his wife wouldn't consider taking to court there, having your toes in the warm sand, waves splashing on your bare ankles lessen the blow of having a man tell you that you failed as a husband, and that your wife no longer wanted you. His muses enjoyed it to, but alas, a heavenly divorce under a warm sunset was too much to ask for, as he landed himself on a boat back to the city.

Five years, and two books publishing later, he was lying in bed, looking up at his sky blue ceiling, thinking over the fact that he officially sign himself into the “divorce club” and even contacted a woman on there. No, he still couldn't think about that now, that was a serious site, and he couldn't see himself giving his full attention to something like that now. His attention was now own by a museum, that has called him about his studies in Hawaii, it was a bitter taste to know that when he wrote adult books, people paid attention more. No matter, he felt at home with the Hawaiians, he wouldn't mind supporting their art and spreading their culture whenever he could.

Finally rising from the bed, he then began to prepare himself, he started with simple hygiene, he shaved the stubble that began to ruin his neatly trimmed goatee, it was a small goatee, with just a hint of a mustache on the top of his lip, and a fuzz of hair on his chin, the red really popped against his pale skin. After using the minted after shave, he tended to his shoulder length red hair, combing it straight back seemed to be the only thing he did with it now days, plus his hair was no where near receding as it laid thick against his scalp.
He ran his fingers through his hair to give it a more wavy feel than a stiff one his gel was giving off. He frowned slightly at the silver streak down the middle, he's always dyed white streaks in his hair since the tender age of thirteen, and even though juvenile, he wasn't going to change it now that he was older, but it seemed he didn't need it now that the graying sign of stressful days was doing the job for him. Enough pampering, as he applied a modest musky scent to his towel clad form, it was a gentle man scent that one would mock him for not smelling like a musk ox, but strong scents, that Old Spice and Axe gave, burned his sense and left him light headed, in a bad way.

He riffled though his clothes and picked out an appropriate silk button up blue shirt—not tucked—black formal slacks, and his vibrant purple latex gloves. He put on his best shoes and began to search his house for his book on the Hawaiian culture, and collected his black briefcase with the silver trimming. One more look over himself, this was as formal as he was able to get, he walked out the bedroom door and left his house, cursing his poor mind, he unlocked the door and rushed back into his bed room.

“I can't forget you, now can I, Ahonui?”

He sat in the driver seat of his black BMW M6 with the silver trimmings as he drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. His manager sat in the passenger seat next to him, huffing and rolling her eyes at his tense shoulders as he sat up straight in the car, both hands was on the wheel. She was a coal black haired, green eyed woman who was always seen in a black business suit; her shiny pin straight page boy hairstyle stiff on her head as her legs were crossed she began to bounce the one on top, agitatedly, and her red heels continued to kick at the glove compartment repeatedly, huffing and surveying her french tipped nails.

“W-would ya stop!” He shouted, Irish accent popping out as he stopped drumming his fingers and clenched onto the wheel tightly, if he wasn't wearing the purple gloves, one would see his knuckles going white, “You'll make me crash.” He said, turning his attention back to the road.

“Oh, am I bothering you?” She started, her strictly proper American voice having a false concern to it, “Because I was just mimicking the prick who was pouting next to me a minute ago.” She said curtly.

He huffed and rolled his eyes, causing a victorious smirk to form on her lips, “You need to lighten up, baby, have a smoke, hell get that head of yours checked out again—there is a museum, calling for your cooky ass to open it for them! This is a good thing!” She said, “Plus just think of how many people would want your book after this.”

The woman reached in the back and pulled out the multicolored book and began to flip through the pages, but he knew she wasn't reading it, or even skimming it for that matter.

“This is not a good thing, this is not what I want.” He said, releasing his firm hold on the steering wheel, but kept both hands posted.

“Oh, so you'd rather be in a children's library, having little girls coming up to you and squealing about how they 'found' their 'Hallucination Rock' or some shit.” His eye twitched at her words.

“Yes, I do.” He sound sarcastic, but he wasn't, he truly did enjoy that the little girls could imagine themselves as princesses, he's happy he made them feel like one, “And it's 'Samhlaíochta Island'.” He said.

She rolled her eyes but brighten as they made it to the museum, it was huge, and very nice. He finally released the wheel but she placed a hand on his arm before he could take off his seat belt. She stuffed a cigarette in her mouth and lit it, she took a few drags before she plucked it from her lips and stuffed it in his mouth; he tasted the clay flavored crimson lipstick, but kept the cigarette in his mouth as he finished it. He opened the retractable ashtray and place the butt in with the soot and the three other butts that's been there for a good year—it was the woman beside him that he was smoking again.

“When we go in there, you say whatever batshit 'speech' you've wrote, and then at the end, I want you to mention your book—you better sell it—you hear me, list all the lives it's 'changed', what's it's called, and where they can buy it.” She said sternly, using her fingers to quote her words. “Now come on you freak.” She said watching him adjust his purple gloves.

He grabbed his things and they exit out of the car and walked up the steps into the museum. He went straight to the front doors of the exhibition, looking at the art work, and the many reminders of his short stay in the tropics. His manager was talking to the owner of the museum, trying to see where they stand in this situation. He didn't care as he rubbed the bulge in his pants pocket that his shirt covered, he felt his car keys, his wallet, and a hard form off to the side.

“Jay-Jay were in!” He jumped as the strong voice of his manager boomed in—calling him that horrible name—she was standing next to him but wasn't phased at his nervous behavior. “Well...? Go recite your shit and get ready—go, go, go.” She said, pushing him more than letting him move, they had a lot of preparing to do before night fell.