The Art of Madame Whitsome

By Dale Hollin

Sometimes the baton of a conductor holds the sharpened edge of a blade. The baton of The Madam is such that spills blood. When this conductor’s manservant abducts an angelic and gifted harpist named Celeste for his employer’s next amusement and artistic endeavor; the house and estate fill with not only beautiful music, but all the torment and flames of hell. A chilling tale of orchestrated pain and dark romance, woven into a literary melody of heated torture and sacrifice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Melange Books, LLC
• Release date: Sep 23, 2014
• ISBN: 9781612358949

Dale Hollin

Dale Hollin is a failed socialite and working writer from Indianapolis, Indiana. He is the author of the controversial novel entitled "The Abomination of Norma"; and has several short stories published in various zines and anthologies, including Lovecraftzine, JWKFiction, and The Midwest Literary Magazine. When not tormented within the confines of his own mind, he lives for red wine and sharing the world with his beloved and beautiful daughter.

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The Art of Madame Whitsome

by Dale Hollin

Published by

Melange Books, LLC

White Bear Lake, MN 55110

www.melange-books.com

The Art of Madame Whitsome, Copyright 2014 Dale Hollin

ISBN: 978-1-61235-894-9

Names, characters, and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Published in the United States of America.

Cover Design by Stephanie Flint

Table of Contents

The Art of Madame Whitsome

About the Author

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THE ART OF MADAME WHITSOME

by Dale Hollin

Sometimes the baton of a conductor holds the sharpened edge of a blade. The baton of The Madam is such that spills blood. When this conductor’s manservant abducts an angelic and gifted harpist named Celeste for his employer’s next amusement and artistic endeavor; the house and estate fill with not only beautiful music, but all the torment and flames of hell. A chilling tale of orchestrated pain and dark romance, woven into a literary melody of heated torture and sacrifice.

The Art of Madame Whitsome

Taste is the most primitive and obscene of the senses, serving absolutely no evolutionary purpose. It holds true only to a selfish nature of materialist pleasantry.

All other senses give warning of danger as a matter of survival instinct, yet even the most toxic of venom can taste sweet upon the tongue as the self becomes dismissed through the bitter salt of absolute requiem.

She lifted the frail and painted cup, and closed her eyes as the flavor of chamomile manipulated her submerged tongue into a convincing mood that all was well with the world. She glanced at the shadowed form of Darwin who was standing, dark and still as a twilit sentinel, beyond the doorframe of the darkened chamber.

Darwin, do usher in our newest prospect. The others have been so disappointing so far. Is there any hope at all for true art in today’s commercial climate?

I’m afraid that’s only for you to decide, Madam. You are the critic and connoisseur of all these types of exploits. I merely remove the rubbish.

Christ, the man was stubborn, she thought. Only a Negro could be so condescending and diffident in the same response.

It does seem, Darwin, that you could form an opinionated critique of your own on the subject. You have obviously excelled in every endeavor, from The Sudan to Cairo. Do you feel our environment could be altered to be more conducive or inspiring?

The man stared forward; only a slight curve at the corners of his mouth could be divined as any sort of emotion from the man.

You are the true artist of the house, Madam. I don’t believe these underlings will ever be to your expectations.

My God, Darwin! But you are a pompous ass. Do fetch our next proposition. I tire of your vague patronizations.

As you wish, Madam.

She lifted her painted cup of tea as his shadow passed beyond her doorway. She sometimes tried to picture his face. She had never actually confronted Darwin in such a way. He seemed to be as comfortable as she with their separatist arrangement. If she would ever look upon him, or he look upon her, she would immediately be rid of him. Etiquette was a principle in such matters.

She thought fondly back to a certain subject that had actually lived beyond even her expectations, a shy, youthful violinist by the name of Adam. She received so few musicians here. Adam was also a poet, and sometimes would intertwine verse with his created melodies. The result would be breathtaking, especially once she had enslaved his muse. Most times, this feat proved itself elusive, but once accomplished, she was able to almost bottle and preserve the imps for future artistic creations according to her own will.

Extracting the imp from Adam was one of her greatest challenges. All of fourteen years old, he carried an innocence within his creative genius, which she considered not only rare, but distracting.

During most sessions, he would always gaze up at her with his large, liquid brown eyes, as if pleading as a child would plead. His passions seemed to be even minute amounts of his own blood. All she had to do was draw a few precious drops of this from even the most trivial parts of his body, smear the crimson draught upon either her lips or a pale sheet of artboard, and her prodigy would produce exceptional pieces of prose and musical compositions for her pleasure. The only challenge was his eyes. She hated looking into them during the sessions. Once drawing the conclusion that Adam would be more inspired while blindfolded, was that problem solved. He had never depended on his eyesight in playing the instrument anyway, and Darwin did have the most beautiful mask made for him; black with lace trim. Quite extraordinary, really.

The demise of Adam was her own fault. She gave him more freedom than the others. Adam’s own vanity finally extinguished his light: the mirror she had permitted him to have, broken into pieces; a small and pointed shard of it thrust forcefully into his own throat. She had always considered suicide among the youth the greatest of tragedies. This one, though, struck a personal note within her heartstrings. Her Adam had played his final and most tragic note, with seemingly no uttered word to accompany his final hymn.

Adam was a lesson learned for her. The artists would thereafter have to be more heavily monitored.

The Madam’s most recent selections left much to be desired by comparison. Within the last four months, she had been saddled with two painters, a sculptress, and one truly pathetic interpretive dancer. It seemed the world of art was attracting more and more of a dullard following, by contrast of even contemporary history.

She took another sip of the chamomile. The sultry flavor pervaded her weakest sense, and she smiled slowly as she swallowed and wondered at the pleasures of that which inspires. She