"VeryShortStory: What I most wanted was you. What I settled for was your sister. in your hand-me-down clothes, viewed from the right angle in low light."
Monday, June 27, 2011
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Memory I
He removes my scarf and white silk blouse, dropping them to the sooty earth-packed floor. He holds my hands--both within one of his, directing me to spin. Using his lips he begins to unwind duct tape which he affixes to my flesh, beginning just beneath my armpit and binding my breasts tight. He may well have taped my mouth, because not a sound escapes these trembling lips.
There are predators here, were the words which took my skirt.
You will work now.
He throws a bright orange jumpsuit at me, releasing me, forcibly. My knees had given out long prior, the releasing of hands enabling my crouch in this cool, dim silence. I realize that I am in a basement as the light of a home streams in Dolby digital silhouette from his open door. The wind in the door presses a woman's slandering monologue in effervescent fits of laughter. Redemption... justice... and healing through the discipline of others... there are other terms. These strke hardest.
Beside the door sits a pair of steel-toe work boots and a long list on parchment, Perceptions Of Sentience scripted neatly up top--the remaining words scribbled in a language utterly foreign and indecipherable. I sit still for a long while, finally dressing in the drawing/waning light of a distant furnace. Approaching it, I crumble and toss his P.O.S. directives inside. They give a brief, bright flash as they proceed to penetrate the eternal movement of umber coal and flame. One thing, and one thing alone is mine for certain: I CANNOT COMPLAIN.
There are predators here, were the words which took my skirt.
You will work now.
He throws a bright orange jumpsuit at me, releasing me, forcibly. My knees had given out long prior, the releasing of hands enabling my crouch in this cool, dim silence. I realize that I am in a basement as the light of a home streams in Dolby digital silhouette from his open door. The wind in the door presses a woman's slandering monologue in effervescent fits of laughter. Redemption... justice... and healing through the discipline of others... there are other terms. These strke hardest.
Beside the door sits a pair of steel-toe work boots and a long list on parchment, Perceptions Of Sentience scripted neatly up top--the remaining words scribbled in a language utterly foreign and indecipherable. I sit still for a long while, finally dressing in the drawing/waning light of a distant furnace. Approaching it, I crumble and toss his P.O.S. directives inside. They give a brief, bright flash as they proceed to penetrate the eternal movement of umber coal and flame. One thing, and one thing alone is mine for certain: I CANNOT COMPLAIN.
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