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Hyper-detailed photorealistic night still, deep focus, razor-sharp micro-detail in every fabric, thread and strand, eye-level camera. The scene fills the whole sheet edge to edge, only the outermost border of the paper ripped into jagged torn edges with small bites missing and loose white fibres, laid on black. A slight, fine-boned, youthful woman of about thirty, narrow sloping shoulders, thin arms and delicate wrists, a soft curve showing where the velvet has slipped low, kneeling on bare floorboards. Small soft oval face, delicate, gentle rounded features, small chin, soft jawline, very bright pale sapphire blue eyes with a darker ring around the iris, pale porcelain skin, freckles across nose and cheeks. Old mascara dried in grey streaks on her cheeks, dark plum lipstick, chin lifted, lips parted on a hard breath, brows low, her bright sapphire eyes level with yours, blazing, half fury half relief, as if the hair had been choking her. Fitted black velvet top slipped off both shoulders and low across her chest, collarbones and upper back uncovered, its pile worn bald in patches, raw edges unravelling into loose threads, black velvet ribbon choker with a small antique cameo, short black lace skirt over a dusty plum lining, every lace motif sharp, fraying at the hem, sheer black thigh-high stockings, fine mesh weave visible, wide intricate lace tops, a band of pale thigh between stocking and hem, one boot kicked off. Chipped black nail polish. Her copper auburn hair is already hacked to a ragged jaw-length crop, plain natural copper. She holds the last long hank up at arm's length in one fist, just cut free, copper fading to a tired washed-out rainbow, its severed ends dangling, the scissors open in her other hand. The hair. A few long cut lengths lie scattered across mostly bare worn floorboards, losing their colour as they lie: the freshest beside her still faintly rainbow, red orange yellow green blue violet fading along each strand, the ones further out drained to pale ash grey. Above her left ear a single short tuft has already grown back, finger-length, soft and fine as new growth, standing up from the plain copper crop in fresh vivid rainbow, the brightest colour in the room. She has not seen it. As always it will. Behind her an empty cracked gilt frame leans against the wall, holding only peeling wallpaper. Light. A small lamp knocked over on the floor, a dusty rose silk scarf slid off its shade, throws low warm rosy light across her face, hands and the scattered hair; cold blue moonlight through a frayed lace curtain. The room. A shabby attic room, peeling floral wallpaper with water stains, dead roses in a glass jar on the windowsill, her starry midnight blue overcoat over a sagging velvet sofa. Lonely, beautiful and defiant, by eryn
A surreal and melancholic image, in which change takes on the colors of freedom and rebirth.
