[Prose] Woman Waits, Seething, Blooming – Part II

Although a response to David Egger’s short story, this continuation has been written so as to be readable in isolation from the original text. 

She stormed into the hallway to catch the beams of her son’s headlights bringing life to the stained glass flowers embedded in her front door. Maria winced her eyes shut and began to mouth her argument with small, sputtering lips. She sighed hard and released the drunken spittle that had been clinging for dear life in between them. She watched it fly ahead of her before wiping her mouth with the sleeve of her nightgown. Yet she felt more moisture crawling and creeping down her body. She took a moment. Brian was still in the car. Was he afraid to come inside? He fucking should be, she thought to herself. She looked around. Ah! It was the drink, of course. She wiped her mouth against her right arm, failing to remember that she was still holding a tumbler of gin and red wine, which she had spilled on her cleavage and nightgown.

She knew that no matter what she had to say to her son, it would be more convincing if she wasn’t holding a still-sizable measure of alcohol. But it was too late: Brian’s key was in the door. It fit perfectly the first time. There was so scraping or dragging it across the vicinity of the lock. He must be sober. The door opened, squeaking comically, almost mockingly. His naturally pale face revealed itself in the light of the hallway. He pursed his dark red lips. His blue eyes shone with worry. He apologised immediately, but it wasn’t enough. Of course it wasn’t enough! She launched into her monologue. It was a lengthy, surprisingly verbose affair, with various peaks of hyperbolically-related misery, although Maria took care to maintain a consistently grim tone throughout. It was only halfway through a fiercely delivered anecdote about her unbearably bleak adolescence that she thought to ask Brian where he had actually been all this time.

[Music] Katy Perry – PRISM (review)

You remember Teenage Dream, right? No, not the singular pitch-perfect exercise in sleek, radio-friendly pop-rock that topped charts worldwide. Nor am I even referring to the album of the same name. Katy Perry’s sophomore effort can only be discussed in terms of its campaign, a seemingly interminable but ultimately enjoyable stretch of twenty-six months, encompassing five Billboard number ones, a sell-out tour and the not entirely vomit-inducing documentary “Katy Perry: Part of Me”. The album itself may have been textbook example of cynical hit-chasing, but one thing the era couldn’t be accused of was a lack of conviction from Perry herself. Whether shooting cream from her breasts, attempting laughably high notes or trying to out-Gaga Gaga when even the Lady herself knew her ‘wacky’ style was becoming passé, she did it all with a knowing wink and a cheesy grin.

That this steely façade should show signs of degeneration on Perry’s third effort is one of the record’s most pleasant surprises. Make no mistake – PRISM is a purpose-built set, designed to keep Perry on top of the charts while simultaneously laying down the infrastructure to bring her back to her roots as a quasi-credible singer/songwriter. The album houses a plethora of hits, most of which breeze by with unexpectedly nuanced production from pop mob bosses Dr. Luke and Max Martin. There are inevitably a few ‘emergency button’ singles should things turn sour – “This Is How We Do” bumbles along like a Ke$ha track on valium, while “International Smile”, with its skittish guitar riff and fizzy synths, could’ve been ripped straight from Teenage Dream – but Perry’s strained, passionless delivery gives you hope that she’s over this brand of cookie-cutter  pop.