Joy August Ripsaw was a natural born killer. If she knew I was writing this, she’d delete “natural born” and scrawl “fashion-forward.” But I’m not a penchant fabricator, at least not while penning bios. No yellow print here. While on the subject of disclosure, I will acknowledge that an exposé might just tip the imported auto scales in my favor should Miss Ripsaw need to dump that blood-red beauty. Joy August Ripsaw: Reign of The Shredder; The Unauthorized Unraveling – should be released in time for the holiday season.
JOY-FUL1 the vanity plate persistently screams for Joy who lost her voice on the road somewhere. Comeuppance duly served at the table of life. At least twenty years–maybe longer. The aging blood-red auto is the only thing that remains of the rogue goddess. Admirers assume the winged sports car was born of vanity and a leather steering wheel twice removed. JOY-FUL1. She couldn’t recall ever being so lamely literal. That’s not true. She does remember but chooses to forget.
On the streets of New York City, a teen Miss Ripsaw had been approached several times by modelling agents and fashion photographers. Why she never chose modelling was a point of pride. Miss Ripsaw’s latest version rounds four approaches to twenty. These approaches laid the foot stones of her path. Joy August Ripsaw posed for no one. She would be the extraordinarily beautiful puppet master jerking all the strings.
For fifteen years, Joy August Ripsaw was the editor-in-chief of Galgeous–an omniscient, iconic fashion magazine. 120 satin pages exploded monthly between polished fingers. Monochromatic perfection reeled in sensory motors by the thousands, mounting them on the trophy wall of the editor-in-chief’s gilded office.
Before all the fame came her form. Miss Ripsaw had the finest. She thrust the long lance then jabbed with the short blade and moved in for the kill–leveling final blows with the ripsaw. Joy August aka The Shredder attacked, took down and feasted until she was full of herself. It was only a matter of time until all rivals were rendered into carrion that only shiny black beetles and nandi roaches were interested in.
Miss Ripsaw’s finely tuned ass claimed the Galgeous throne in gladiator style. After her official coronation, the gold keys to a Lamborghini Veneno Roadster were placed in her capable claws. She added the vanity plate JOY-FUL1 to the blood-red eye candy. The height of clever irony from the mind of one perfectly clever. That’s not true either. She was just the most vicious and won.
Joy August Ripsaw lusted in many life arenas. She prayed for tyranny during her reign. She envisioned, Joy’s August Ripsaw an edgier publication of casual refinement and sensual sleek done up in long-toothed matte textures. For now it would have to remain a pulsing desire. The moniker, Galgeous, was a literal load that even Miss Ripsaw’s teeth couldn’t shred. There was no besting its spectacular numbers. Galgeous had made its mark. Not a mark, a mortal wound into the fashion world’s heart. While other publications dripped red, Galgeous bled green thru and thru. It claimed top-eye shelf everywhere, besting Cosmo, Vanity, Vogue. Miss Ripsaw would live with Galgeous awhile. In the meantime, Joy August Ripsaw’s likeness graced all covers as expected. She became the celebrated one. The one “to invite.” She was JOY-FUL1.
Joy had been joyous–satiated with vexing overtones. Her sultry flesh caressed only labels purchased by three zeroes and a decimal. Like black interstates, heavy onyx eyeliner drove her lavender eyes into daily battle. She was a merciless foe. Miss Ripsaw dressed to kill and spoke to mutilate. So what was happening was truth. Her version of a life mapped out with signature style. Her signature unreadable as it was purposeful.
Joy August Ripsaw knew the life she chiseled–like the Greeks and Romans before her–was predestined to fall. Every human had their day of reckoning. And the more lives you wrecked the more reckoning piled on. This wasn’t palmistry or fortune casting. This was the universe speaking–the ultimate bitch. And in her worldly mirror there were no alterations. The universe cackled every time Joy August fired the help for making weak espresso. She climaxed whenever Miss Ripsaw lashed and fired support staff.
Joy August Ripsaw knew her vested time versed the internal clock. All territories had to be claimed before her fine timepiece struck thirty-nine–the age that passed admiration but not respectability. She was not interested in the latter. By now you have gleaned her outward presence. Joy August Ripsaw was born in goddess visual. Not a talent, but a gift she wrapped and gave only when the season was right.
Joy August wore nonprescription, metallic-black rectangular eyewear. Employees and meeting attendees alike were to believe Miss Ripsaw was purpose-driven and not craving goddess food. To back this notion, “From the Editor’s Desk,” the monthly column by Miss Ripsaw, was seven-eighths copy and one-eighth image-hers. She sometimes almost believed her own bullshit. Proof positive was the small portrait photo in the column’s header. Every night without fail, the column was the last thing Miss Ripsaw reviewed before a chauffeur drove her home.
The New York sky was the color of its real estate, grey and cold. The rising Central Park sun lifted above the trees. Its cold beams climbed into the penthouse windows and spread across the Donna Karan Meditation duvet. This morning when she woke, Joy August Ripsaw counted fifty years and screamed into her Egyptian-cotton pillows stained black with onyx.
And to the freeway, a previously-owned, blood-red Italian sports car and a dark-haired bio author wearing large sunglasses–the kind that belie age for elegance.
This ends Volume 1
Flash Fiction Experimentation Take 1…
If you reached this far down reading, I truly appreciate and thank you for your vested time.
Dedicated to Dinghies Everywhere 😉