Body

What I saw while working on this piece:

The traffic light changed with a dull click. Tugging her leather jacket tighter, she stepped off the curb.

Midway across the empty, four-lane street, she paused to gaze up at the red light, reddish rain drops dropping around it, making orangey halos around her lashes.

The light changed to green with a dull click. Her gaze dropped to the empty street – yellow, brown, and wet.

She crossed, ascending the far curb as the light changed with a dull click. The red pulled, but she didn’t look back, the tap of her spike heels clicking against the empty street pushed her forward. Red spikes pounding forward.

She stopped at a store window, broken, cobwebbed in places, completely shattered in others. Rage. Red rage crawled across the webs. Her shaking hand pressed to the glass, fingers gripping. Shattered.

A car honked. She jumped and walked on. Cold, wet drops hit against her bare belly. She hunched forward so her jacket covered her just a little, covered, a little warmer. Her heels tapped, bare legs trembling in the wind, dirty yellow light lighting up her way.

She paused, gazing up at the green light, tapping her heel, tap, tap, click. Green clicked to red. She stepped off the curb. A lone car turned the far corner and stopped.

Midway across the street, she stopped to gaze up at the red light. The passenger door opened. A rough call hit hollow against the wet, yellow street. The light clicked to green.

Her gaze dropped to the empty street. The graveyard call issued again from the open door. Her gaze turned to meet it, to look over it, head tilted at no cover from the red rage at the end of the empty yellow street.

She tugged her jacket tighter. Her gaze dropped to the car, to the hand reaching out, the coffin-soft voice beckoning roughly, to the warmth emanating from the yellow glow.

She stepped to the car. The light clicked to yellow, then red. The door closed with a tomb-like thud. She tugged her jacket tighter around her body, a body, dirty yellow, not even a little warm, red and shattered, no cover - nobody.

Halloween

When I was looking through these snaps today, I heard a social worker ask, “Why don’t you girls ever smile?” And I smiled as Chevy answered, “Because we’re not dead yet?”

She’ll be 47 tomorrow, and she’ll be smiling.

Give her a minute, a smile, and her name.

And give this man a smile also. He needs it. I've known too many like him, sad, lonely, hating.

“I really don’t give a [expletive]. Look am I going to sit and weep every time a young hooker feels as though she’s being taken advantage of?”

No, no more than we'll weep for you, old man, sad, lonely, hating old man, we'll smile.

Mid-Week

“Not chaos-like together crushed and bruised,
But as the world, harmoniously confused,
Where order in variety we see,
And where, though all things differ, all agree.”

Alexander Pope

Exit for Life

Sometimes...

...words won't come, and images won't go away.

Day Before Friday

African Immigrant Found Guilty of Human Trafficking

"She wept often throughout the proceedings, especially during descriptions of her former husband's alleged sexual relations with several of the women, some of them underage."

"Women," some of them "underage."

"Underage" does not equal "woman," it equals "child."

***

To begin to think is the beginning of disgust of the world. ~ Aphra Behn

Romance of the Brothel?

Invisible

Not Again

Winter was coming. She could feel it on the wind through the window. She wished it away as she leaned against the frame, her breath warming cold hands.

Winter used to be fun, when it used to snow. It hadn’t snowed in the city for years. Now, winter meant heavy rain, frozen streets, and fewer jobs. Dicks were picky things; didn’t like it too cold, didn’t like it too warm, too hard or too soft. And teeth, dicks didn’t like teeth, or didn’t like “too much tooth.” A little was okay, just enough, not too much.

“Goddamn it, stop touching me.”

And hands, when a dick was paying for a mouth, it didn’t like hands.

Her shaking hand dug into a leather coat pocket and came up with an empty cigarette pack. Why did she always put empty packs back in her pocket?

“Hey baby girl, come on over here too.”

She tossed the dead roach out the glass-free window. “You’re not rich enough for two, jack-off.”

A guttural snicker slapped the back of her head. “Least you remembered my last name this time. You must be likin’ on me.”

She chuckled between chattering teeth, and turned to face the growler. “I’d like you a lot better where I couldn’t see you.”

From a dirty mattress where he sat with his back against a wall sporting more holes than graffiti painted drywall, his fat, pockmarked sneer aimed her way, but his bulging, stoned eyes never found her. “I could put out your other eye and maybe you tongue needs a trim.”

Her numb fingers instinctively rose to her swollen eye as her gaze held his fat face intently and her bruised jaws clenched, trapping her burning tongue.

He watched her closely, not looking at her at all, while gripping her girlfriend’s bobbing head. “That’s right, keep it shut.”

Keep it shut. Never say things dicks didn’t like to hear. She did some days, but maybe not today.

She turned away, the glint from the mattress trailing a brilliant tail.

Her leather boots crossed and her bare legs clenched for warmth. Her shaking hand dug into her leather coat pocket and came out with an empty cigarette pack. Wind bit her lips and her tongue ran over the lower – bleeding again.

A car pulled up. The occupants didn’t look happy. Her numb hands patted cold leather. She had no money for another pack of smokes. Again today.

The outside trio hovered around the open trunk. Her hand dug into another pocket. Not today, not again today. Why did she always come up empty?

Night was coming. She could say that. She could say it and tell him it was too cold right now, right there, but night would be car work and then she’d make up.

She’d make up. But what if that was too late, what if, what if – again.

She turned again, and this time, stepped toward the mattress. “Gotta smoke?”

The fat sneer intensified. “Yeah I got. What you got? Show me somethin’.”

She stopped at the mattress. The trunk slammed. Her jacket hit the floor. The bulging eyes narrowed and the fat tongue ran over a drooping lower lip.

Voices rose outside. Her gaze held her friend’s bobbing head. Her shirt hit the floor.

A far away door slammed. Angry boots thudded in time with her heart – night was coming, night was coming. It was coming, but maybe not today.

She knelt to the patting hand, met the sneer, and returned it. “Cold really does cause shrinkage, huh?”

The fat growl exploded. The door slammed open. The cold floor slapped her back. Furious boots bounced the bare boards against the back of her head.

Winter was coming. She could feel its sharp cold against her belly. She welcomed it, squinting in the glint of a snow-covered playground, her blood warming the blade.

Not maybe not today, but not again today.

Thirteen

A drop fell from a building gutter and hit my head. I jumped aside with a shiver.

“It likes you, see it jump? It’s not bad. Come on.”

Strike one.

I opened my bag in search of warmth. My head shook at a slinking vulture.

“I’ll make like a choo-choo and you open wide.”

Strike two.

I dug out vials, one almost empty, one mostly full, and one I couldn’t tell.

“Shshsh, open now, but after, keep it closed.”

Strike three.

My jittery eyes and pill-heavy tongue followed empty-handed pedestrian traffic.

“You don’t have to look, close your eyes, but open, open.”

Strike four.

Finally landing on a full pair, I stepped back, hand out for the grungy bag.

“Back up like that, like that, up, down, back and forth.”

Strike five.

I choked. The dirty wine burned my throat, my eyes, and my wind-cool cheeks.

“No, no, stay down, swallow, swallow.”

Strike six.

Two vultures grinned. I tossed my favorite bum a dollar for the wine.

“A little wine, a little blood of the vine makes it nice.”

Strike seven.

The sky opened. I shuddered, wobbling, glancing away from the beady eyes.

“I like it when you look, makes me feel special.”

Strike eight.

Sour breath fell over my shaking head. Too early, my lips parted to protest.

“Never too soon, never too early to learn.”

Strike nine.

A palm snapped my dripping head. A hand grabbed my hair. My mouth closed.

“Shshsh. I don’t like to hit you.”

Strike ten.

My shoulders hunched against their anger demanding what I was standing for.

“Stay still now. It only hurts the first time.”

Strike eleven.

Restraining hands twisted, turned, raised. I fell with a head-shattering boom.

“Stay still!”

Strike twelve.

The slow Cathedral bell tolled midnight.

“Shshsh.”

Thirteen:

“This, no, it’s nothing, not broken. See, I can bend it. It was too early anyway. Wish I had an open/closed sign around my neck. They were mad about something, I guess, but that tooth was bothering me anyway, and it was raining hard, thundering too, so getting out of it was okay. Yeah, inside, in the dumpster beside the church, you know it, but it wasn’t bad, except this time, it wasn’t full enough not to echo.”