J.Cruel

Constant. Sartorial. Wonderment.

Archive for Poison

Which Shoe Tastes Best?

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Spring is in full swing and summer’s in the air! That means it’s time to stop carving up your bootstrap leather and start thinking about sandal season. Any well trained depressionista knows that to find the best tasting shoes, it’s best to start early so you don’t have to shiv someone in the bread line.

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The Beekeeper and the Deadly Art of Love

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No, said her father, you may not wear asymmetrical dresses. No, you may not study apiculture. No, you may not walk the runway. No, you are not Winona Ryder in Beetlejuice. No, you may not marry the doorman.

She showed him.

At her wedding she wore a short, black, one-shoulder number with a two-horned chapeau and chin-length veil.”You look like you’re meeting Death for cocktails,” said Mr. O’Houlihan before he slipped the ring on her finger. Honeybees buzzed among the rafters. Shake, senora, shake, sang the choir. The bishop was pleased, but no one quite knew why.

Bonded jersey one-shoulder dress. ‘Hades’ hat with attached veil.

She Walks in Beauty

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He loved her, Martine. But she was a star beyond his sky. Oh Martine, he whispered, lighting a candle in the town square, you are the most famous weightlifter in all of Luxembourg. It was true. She was three times the winner of the Euro-Centraale Lift-Off, seven times the champion of the Cote Basque Invigoracion, and the unchallenged victor of the Luxembourgeois Weightloffte Contesten. And now she lay beautifully on a bower in the town square, surrounded by dozens of Luxembourgian hydrangeas, unconscious since the accident

The government had released two dozen swans to celebrate Martine’s victory in the Grande Barbelline Olympia. And as the swans climbed past the treeline, towards the Luxembourg Alps, one of them became entangled in the engine of a passing zepplin, which fell out of the sky like a hot coal and landed several feel away from Martine, who was knocked unconscious by the swan.

He visited her each day in the town square, hydrangeas covering the nasty swan wound. He cared for her swan wound, which was fiercely purple and smelled like a moldy rose. And when he could feel her breath grow stronger, he clipped the sleeves from her sweater, and pushed two tiny barbells into her palm, each no bigger than a cannonball. Lift Martine, he whispered. Oh you shall lift again!

Martine eyes fluttered open for a moment, but it was too late. Once it knew love, the swan poison was quick.

Fabienne vest in sable. Marie-Laure pant.