mad-dame

Hello!

MY OH MY!

What a year god dammit!!

I have currently published TWO Issues of my Hard Copy Magazine Artbook called DAMED MAGAZINE.

I secretly have assistants scrounging through Deviant Art looking for suitable artists and new or hidden talents!

But if you're interested in being PUBLISHED and want to get your work out there, have a look at my Submission details - each Issue has a theme.

SUBMIT artwork to DAMED Magazine

I also have TWO current competitions with real prizes and publication opportunities here:

SELF PORTRAIT COMP HERE

RECREATE FAV MAD DAME PHOTO HERE

Follow all the hardcore shit on my Facebook here!!!</b>

Instagram: @maddamesuicide

INSPIRATION STORY
The Desert of Her Mind

There once was a girl. She was a joy to her parents, their only child, and they a joy to her. Her father would take her on his motorcycle, would race and zigzag just to hear her squeals of laughter. He would carry her through the garden on his shoulders, naming the plants, picking her favourite fruits, the ones that she could not reach. Her mother introduced her to the world of literature, leading her by the hand on adventures of escapism and intrigue, showing her the worlds that others had imagined and brought to life. Theirs was a life of love.

She grew older, she became more beautiful, her vibrancy transforming into sensuality and passion. Her parents worried, of course, but that worry was tempered with trust, and pride.
One day, as they always do, she fell in love. The kind of love that is sung about, that can transform a person, that should last for all time, the kind of love we all wish to fall into. The kind of love that is destined for tragedy.
The accident was a shock to them all. Her lover blamed himself, went mad and took his life, her father retreated into himself and his drinking, left the garden to die and his motorcycle to rust, her mother closed her library and took over the day to day. Because the girl could no longer move. The accident had destroyed everything.

Her mother would come into the girl's room every morning, open the curtains, open the windows, and chatter endlessly about nothing. She ceaselessly filled the silence with trivialities, filled the space left in their lives with a constant stream of words, falling from her mouth like the broken promises of the girl's life. While the dust in the library continued to gather.


It started the same way every night, not merely falling asleep, but plummeting through the layers of her consciousness. The impact imminent, the panic and certainty of death, and the relief of waking – but not to her paralysed body and trapped mind, but to the barren sensuality of this new place.

And he was there. Not the same, darker, more dangerous, and with none of the irritants that come with real life. Their love blazed in that place, burnt brighter than it ever could have in this world. The suspended reality of the place began to matter more and more, and she spent her waking hours, with her mother's prattle receding evermore into the background, waiting, yearning for the darkness when she could retreat into her dreamscape.

Her mother, watchful as always, noticed the change. How could she not? This was her girl, her baby, whom she had seen struggle in the aftermath of the accident, the resentment, the fury, the despair, all of it clearly written in the girls eyes. It hurt, but every time she saw them there she was relieved – her girl was fighting.

It was the last morning that mattered to any of them, when the father noticed that there was no chatter humming at the back of the house. The silence, after the months of the strained filler, was more terrifying than he could have imagined. He raced through the house, imagining the worst and hoping for the best.
He crashed through the door and found his wife holding the form of their daughter to her, tears streaming down her face and onto the girl. His wife looked up, no longer a mother, the face of despair, and he looked down to see his daughter, the girl, still breathing, her eyes empty. She had gone.

And the father, who was now just a man, looked out into his garden that was now a wasteland.

- By Hadass Ormandy