Issue Two
December 2024
Even Vogue
Jupiter Jones
It started in Milan, some designer with an outré idea for his spring collection. The models, whip-thin, strutted the walk in hats made of birds. Real birds, singing for all they were worth, captivating songs. Capes too, made of birds. Tiny birds—the hardly-a-mouthful types that used to be prized as ortolan— stitched with overlapping wings like old-time fan dancers. The crowd froze, open mouthed, it was unspeakably cruel. Then someone started to clap, and the pitiful birdsong was drowned by applause and the up-on-their-feet stamping of approval.
The trend gathered momentum. Even Vogue featured pyjamas made of owls. Too lumpy for sleeping in, too hooty to sleep in, but they were all the rage. Ah, yes, rage. Old-school film moguls, and ultra-rich Eurotrash stars fought (sometimes literally) over each and every one-of-a-kind garment. Oligarchs sold their firstborn for collared dove collars, princes leveraged birthrights and castles for cockateel cocktail dresses or pigeon peacoats.
Swansong: original artwork by Anne Anthony
There was something extraordinarily chic about that cruelty, an ornamental value to the sheer heartlessness. That complete lack of scruple? Well. We all wanted it, I’d fought tooth and claw to be part of that milieu, and I coveted the swan coat. I’d caught a glimpse in a by-appointment-only boutique in the Eighth Arrondissement. The price tag was immaterial. I’d wheedle it out of my geriatric hubby—the world’s second-richest tech gargoyle.
The moment the coat was delivered, I locked the doors and put it on. It smelt of the river. Whiteness enveloped me as the wing feathers swooped almost to the floor. It was muscular too, the strength of their necks, surprising. And weighty, the utilitarian frankness of their feet contrasting with the glide and grace above. Four living swans made the flared panels of the coat and a fifth (and maybe sixth—who cares?) had been dismembered to provide the sleeves, collar, and interfacings. In the pocket was a handwritten note from the atelier advising that the coat would need feeding twice a day and that access to fresh water should be provided whenever possible.
I glided from mirror to mirror.
"Hiss, you damn birds. Hiss."
They stared at me with their cold, black button eyes and hissed.
About the author
Jupiter Jones
Jupiter Jones writes short and flash fictions published in Ad Hoc, Aesthetica, Amphibia, etc. She is the author of three novellas-in-flash, including Lovelace Flats published by Reflex Press. Being a proper nerd with very little social life, she is currently working on a PhD on (dis)connectivity in the novella-in-flash. @jupiterjonz