NaraMoore ⛩️👻八尺様👻⛩️ at Fedi<p><a href="https://sakurajima.moe/tags/TimeTravelAuthors" class="mention hashtag" rel="nofollow noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">#<span>TimeTravelAuthors</span></a> 06/09 <a href="https://sakurajima.moe/tags/Costumes" class="mention hashtag" rel="nofollow noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">#<span>Costumes</span></a><br><a href="https://sakurajima.moe/tags/MastoPrompt" class="mention hashtag" rel="nofollow noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">#<span>MastoPrompt</span></a> <a href="https://sakurajima.moe/tags/sketch" class="mention hashtag" rel="nofollow noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">#<span>sketch</span></a> <br><a href="https://sakurajima.moe/tags/TimeTravelingGhost" class="mention hashtag" rel="nofollow noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">#<span>TimeTravelingGhost</span></a> Part 11</p><p>The dingy London street faded from view. The last thing Ghost saw was David Copperfield waving a sad goodbye. “Not a bad fellow,” Ghost thought.</p><p>A brightly lit street replaced the scene of grime and despair. Before me stretched an avenue thronged with people in search of tonight’s delights. Neon signs blazed above doorways, proudly naming the city’s temples of amusement. Down the boulevard, the Moulin Rouge flaunted its red windmill, turning lazily in a bath of neon. Not far from it, a grand neoclassical façade flashed a marquee in red, white, and blue:<br>“Casino de Paris — Maurice Chevalier — To-Night!” On a lamppost was a sketch of a woman in a skirt of bananas.</p><p>And directly before me, under the glow of neon lights, the Folies Bergère shimmered. Its sign read:</p><p>“Josephine Baker — Masquerade (Private)”</p><p>A red carpet lay unfurled across the sidewalk, cordoned off with velvet ropes. Burly attendants held back curious onlookers as men and women in fantastical costumes stepped gracefully from chauffeur-driven touring cars. Somewhere close by, I heard a pair whisper:</p><p>“Is that Hemingway?”<br>“No costume. So gauche.”</p><p>I stood mesmerized. So many lights! So many people! How could such opulence exist along with the squalor I had just seen?</p><p>A red-gloved hand tugged at my sleeve, and a woman’s voice, heavy with a Hungarian accent, said, “Charming a ghost. I needed a companion tonight.”</p><p>She was wearing a 17th-century-style dress of deep crimson satin, but with décolletage that was totally 1920s. It was further accented by black lace and tiny rubies or, more likely, red glass that could have been mistaken for droplets of blood in this light. Her mask was delicate, enameled porcelain, shaped like a weeping face from a church tomb.</p><p>She linked arms with me. Unlike the hand that had tugged my sleeve, it had no glove, displaying long, talon-like scarlet nails. They were hands that never worked beyond claiming what she thought was hers by right.</p><p>Having secured me, she gently took me in tow and entered the theater. The crowds parted for her with a small murmur, “The Countess.” Just as she had claimed me without regard to my wishes, she entered the building, brooking no interference.</p><p><a href="https://sakurajima.moe/tags/MicroFiction" class="mention hashtag" rel="nofollow noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">#<span>MicroFiction</span></a> <a href="https://sakurajima.moe/tags/NMPrompts" class="mention hashtag" rel="nofollow noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">#<span>NMPrompts</span></a> <a href="https://sakurajima.moe/tags/NMTTA" class="mention hashtag" rel="nofollow noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">#<span>NMTTA</span></a> <a href="https://sakurajima.moe/tags/JosephineBaker" class="mention hashtag" rel="nofollow noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">#<span>JosephineBaker</span></a> <a href="https://sakurajima.moe/tags/CountessElizabethB%C3%A1thory" class="mention hashtag" rel="nofollow noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">#<span>CountessElizabethBáthory</span></a></p>