"Her Majesty's a Pretty Nice Girl"


Vivian Darkbloom


Ah, Viv. Viv, Viv, Viv. La-la-la, la la la-la laaa…

Oh, sorry. Wrong song. Or right vintage. Whatever.

Ok. The recommendation. Right. Dear reader, before I should commence lauding the blasphemously marvelous prose of Ms Darkbloom, there is one thing that needs to be mentioned. Mentioned? Nay, insisted upon!

Whether it be a tall, condensation-kissed glass garnished with a lemon, an inverted-scone-shaped flute sporting an olive-packing toothpick, a salt-rimmed cauldron of sin or a can of Busch - one ought to have an alcoholic beverage handy when reading Ms Darkbloom's fiction. Not, as those uninitiated might have ventured, because literary tapestries woven by that most talented of temptresses might need to be taken in when one is a bit fuzzy around the edges - trust me, this is not the case - but because there ought to be *some* form of liquid libation at hand in order to honor this most eloquent of Uber goddesses.

Though, now that I think of it, the concept of reviewing stories based on the level of inebriation one needs to be at before attempting to read them ("This one is a 'Four Tequila Shot' level folks, almost hazardous to your health!") is quite intriguing. Hmm…

Anyway, back to that Darkbloom person. She gone and done it again. What to say about this extrafelicious offering? Words are not enough. Sounds are incompatible with the grace presented. If the attempt to write down and describe out loud the magnacellence of the talent presented fails to convey the true nature of bootyliciousness of the writing involved, one is left with only one viable option. Interpretive dance.

I shall term this one "The Yuppie in Restrictive Clothing Doing a Poor Imitation of the Macarena". And after I put my glass down and move away from the mirror, I shall perform the "Jesus is my Sunbeam and I Often Tan Naked" dance.

As it turns out, this might be somewhat incompatible with the original goal of literary recommendation, not to mention the neighborhood at large (the cats ate my curtains), so I shall finish with the simple, yet powerfully vomiquacious "I Bow to the Porcelain Goddess", and bid you to go read this most effluviolante of offerings from "She Who Eludes Those in Capri Pants".

Really. Go read.

"Her Majesty's..."