Nude-Muse Magazine Magazine

Cynthia was five feet four and built like a line drawing that had decided to be alive, lean through the waist, long in the limbs, with a dark mane of hair that fell past her shoulders and a face that painters would have called expressive, which is just a polite word for restless. She was twenty-two and stunning. She painted for a living and lived for the painting, and on this particular morning she sat astride an old push bike in the pale gold of early summer, pedaling down a lane where the hedges ran silver with heat, and she felt the whole world lean toward her like a window left open.

A friend had suggested it over coffee, casual as a passing cloud: There's that old house on the Harrow farm. Abandoned for decades. Go paint it...more>

This set with Evelyn worked out so well, that once again I was suprised. Next week is halloween, so have the Cynthia set ready to go for that one. stay tuned.

I decided to write a short story about Evelyn. This story is totally fiction and as far as I know Evelyn has never done what is in the story. If there are any similarities to real events and real people, it is purely conincidence.

Evelyn had long since learned to treat her body as an instrument rather than a possession, and it was this particular discipline that carried her up the drive to the estate at the top of the hill, where the morning light lay in slanted bars across the brickwork and the hedges stood so thick and dark behind them that they seemed less like plants than like a wall of green shadow. She was 21 years old, five feet six inches tall, with eyes the colour of wet stone, and she made her living by standing still for other people's cameras; it was...more>