First, he straightens his back,
builds himself real tall, tilts
his chin toward his nose. Red
alert: serious stuff headed this way.
Now, you probably think
you’ve experienced love,
but unlike the men many
of you have known, Jesus
doesn’t ask for favors in return,
at least not that kind of favor.
All he requires of you is to
accept him into your heart,
and to pray for forgiveness
for your sins. You can do that,
can’t you? The robots group-nod.
Then let us pray. Heavenly Father,
please search our hearts, and
find repentance there. We admit
we have sinned. Forgive us and
allow us to walk forward cleansed
of our transgressions. Infuse us
with your light. Fill us with your
love. In Jesus’s blessed name, amen.
We. Us. Our. All-inclusive.
Why Does Everyone Insist
On lumping us all together
under the “troubled youth”
label? I guess our stories
might sound similar,
but to us, they are unique
and personal, despite
the ugly things we have
in common. Most of our
childhoods were marred
by rape, often by older men.
But those might have been
a stepfather, grandfather,
older brother, neighbor,
teacher, priest, doctor,
foster parent, policeman,
or complete stranger.
Faces. Bodies. Odors.
Skin textures. Voices.
Mannerisms. Methods
of attack. All different,
and scratched into our
memories and, worse,
our psyches. We are who
we are because of them.
Post Prayer
We attend classes. I balked
at first, knowing I’d be leaving
House of Hope before I’d complete
a semester, but my counselor
did her job and convinced me
I shouldn’t get any more behind
than I already am. She even got
hold of my high school in Barstow
and found a way for me to finish
up the classes I was most of the way
through when I ran away last spring.
I worked a little magic. That’s how
she put it when she told me I could
complete geometry, world history,
and sophomore English and receive
credit for them. When I go home,
I’ll take online classes, work at
my own pace and hopefully complete
my junior year pretty much on schedule,
or at least by the end of next summer.
I could then, if I wanted, go back
to high school for my senior year
and graduate like a regular kid.
But how do I pretend to be normal?
To Be Perfectly Honest
I’ve never exactly felt “normal,”
thanks to the circumstances
of my life. And, to be even more
honest, I actually feel more
normal now, knowing how many
other girls’ lives don’t fit the usual
definition of the word and yet
share so many strange facets.
There are more imperfect diamonds
than flawless stones. So, what
the hell? I’ll give it a try, and do
my best to keep moving forward.
Hey, with luck, maybe Pastor
Martin’s shtick will rub off and
I’ll make the journey “cleansed
of my transgressions.” Wouldn’t
that be brilliant? Meanwhile,
I’m working diligently to finish
my assignments quickly and earn
decent grades. It’s the first time
since I was a little kid that I’ve
felt compelled to excel at something,
and I’m discovering my mind
is every bit as important as my body.
My Love for Language
Has been rekindled. I first found
it back in Barstow, in Ms. Felton’s
creative writing class. The one
where I met Alex—all spiky hair
and heavy eyeliner and I thought
she was amazing before we ever
hung out together. And maybe
I’ll have to write that memory
for Ms. Cox, who teaches English
with a heavy lean toward creative
writing. Every one of you has stories
to share with the world, she says,
and you must tell them the way only
you can. If I asked you all to write
the same story, still it would be
different from one another’s because
each of you will tell it in your own way,
choosing specific words and syntax.
That is your voice, and it’s as unique
to you as the voice you speak with.
In reply, most of the girls groan,
but they claim to hate writing,
anyway. A few of us take up
the challenge, and I embrace it.
We Write
Happy memories. I struggle
to come up with one of those,
and find it buried beneath
a deep pile of resentments.
It was the first Christmas
we spent with Gram, and there
was a tree—a real tree, our first!—
with ornaments we made ourselves.
Not beautiful by any means,
but spending that time as a family,
stringing popcorn and cranberries
and making paper chains, was new.
We also write sadness,
and I don’t have to look too hard
to pull a short chapter from
my personal history. I only had
to go back a few weeks ago,
to the day Alex and I parted
ways. Although, as I admit
in my paper, she and I had truly
split quite a while before our
formal goodbye, and that’s where
I found the true wellspring
of my sorrow. Faded love.
This Morning
Ms. Cox has a new assignment.
Today let’s write about fear.
First, an exercise. I want you to
concentrate on sensory details.
So take out a piece of paper
and tell me how fear smells.
How it tastes. How it sounds.
How it looks. Feels. One or two
sentences for each sense, and
be creative. You are artists,
painting pictures with words.
Fear isn’t pastel. Be bold. Brave.
This should be easy. For all
the sadness I’ve experienced,
fear is a more present companion.
I have to take a couple of deep
breaths to breast stroke through
the recollections. Now I pick up
my pencil and write. Fear smells
like nicotine-tainted fingers, playing
with an unwashed pecker poking
from piss-damp boxers. Bold?
I think so. I continue. Fear tastes
like the whiskey-soaked lips of your love,
whispering a long goodbye.
That one is fresh, and personal.
Fear is the sound of fingernails,
scratching linoleum, seeking escape
from the monster clawing behind.
Nothing brave about that,
but it’s something I know well.
Fear looks like a crow, circling closer
and closer until its black pearl eyes
come even with your own. Heavy
with symbolism, but also drawn
from experience. Fear feels like
waiting for the phone to ring,
certain the caller will inform you
that your little brother is dead.
Definitely not pastel. That memory
is bloodred, and though I try
really hard not to let it surface,
sometimes it does—a sharp photo
of Sandy lying in the street after
being hit by a motorcycle.
I should have been there, watching
him instead of hanging out downtown.
Thank God he survived, and healed.
We Go Around the Room
Sharing what we’ve written.
Some girls clearly didn’t get
it, and their papers are mostly
blank. Others scribbled madly.
From Lena: Fear is the sound
of my father’s belt, unbuckling.
Plenty to think about there.
Sometimes I’m glad my father
didn’t stick around long enough
for me to get to know him well.
If he was married to Iris, he must
be the world’s biggest loser.
From Brielle: Fear tastes like
the oily, smoky barrel of a gun.
Another bold picture for you,
Ms. Cox. Is that what you expected?
And from my roomie, Miranda:
Fear feels like a snake, wrapping
around and around your throat
and squeezing tighter and tighter
until the light goes all the way
out. And after that comes a gang
rape. Wonder if Ms. Cox might
prefer something more in sepia.
If So
She doesn’t mention it, or
even look surprised at the things
she’s heard, including what
I wrote. The other girls aren’t
shocked, either, although
my “fear smells like” sentence
does elicit a fair amount of laughter,
mostly because the majority
of girls here have been in that
exact situation. Which makes me
wonder about Ms. Cox and her
relative lack of reaction. Was she
ever in the life? Thinking about
it, I’m guessing no, or she probably
would have changed her last name.
That makes me giggle, so I’m glad
the other girls are still laughing
about unwashed pecker and piss-damp
boxers. But now, Ms. Cox reins us in.
Okay, since you’ve got solid
sensory details to bring this story
to life, I want you to write about
a time when you were frightened.
Make your readers feel your fear.
Won’t That Depend
On who my readers are?
I mean, if I wrote about
my “breaking in” by one
of my mother’s men,
the story wouldn’t bother
these girls, though it might
scare the hell out of some
innocent virgin somewhere.
Oh, well. Ms. Cox never
mentioned audience, so I’ll go
with whatever first comes
to mind. I have to think for
a few minutes. Fear. I close
my eyes, fall backward in time.
Way, way back into childhood.
I was a kid once, wasn’t I?
And there was a time long
before moving in with Gram
when Iris was still “Mommy.”
We moved around, spent lots
of time on military bases,
living with a lineup of men,
and I find myself on a lopsided
sofa, watching cartoons.
I Start My Story There
Mommy says I’m a big girl, so I’m in
charge while she’s gone. Mary Ann’s
asleep in her dirty old crib. Her diaper
smells like poo, but it’s dark outside,
and the light is burned out so I can
only see by the TV. Scritch-scratch.
What’s moving across the floor? Ew!
Giant brown bugs, two of them, with
clicking shells and antennas that twitch
sideways. I pull my feet up onto the couch,
which smells like cigarettes and beer
and something I don’t have a name for,
but it stains the cushions crusty white.
Suddenly, there’s banging on the door.
Iris! Let me in! It’s Wes. Where’s his key?
I start to get up, but with a loud crash,
the door flies open. Where the fuck is Iris?
That makes Mary Ann wake up, crying.
Wes stomps closer, eyes wide and weird,
reflecting the TV’s glow. His mouth leaks
booze-stinking spit and he screams, I said,
where’s your fucking mother? I draw back
against the arm of the sofa, try to crawl
into the crack there, but Mary Ann’s wailing
makes Wes mad. Shut up! he yells, shaking
the rail, which only makes her cry harder.
He reaches into the crib, but I know he’ll hurt
her. “No! Stop. I’ll take care of her. Mommy’s
next door at Steve’s.” Ken spins, and I think
he’ll leave us alone, but he grabs hold
of me, tucks me under one arm, and now
I smell onion sweat. I’m facedown, watching
the ground move below, dizzying. Tread
the steps, across the dead grass, toward
the neighbor’s, Wes’s anger beating palpably.
Hey, Iris! I’ve got your little girl! Bam!
He kicks in the door, and there’s Mommy,
and now I notice the knife in his hand.
You been screwing around, whore? He puts me
down, but doesn’t let go. Instead, he holds
the blade to my throat. Come here, Iris. It’s you
or her. I see Mommy smile. Feel a sharp sting.
Look down as red dollops fall onto my shirt . . .
The story ends with shirtless Steve, who
went out the bedroom window, around
the house, and sneaked in from behind,
resting his pistol against Wes’s temple.
Iris laughed and laughed and laughed.
A Poem by Bud Parnell
My Story Nears Its Conclusion
Not quite two years
since my sweetheart let go
of her pain, emptied
these rooms of love, and
I
still hear her whispers
fall soft against my pillow
in the deep indigo sea
of night. How do I ignore the
hunger
to hold her again, spend
just one more hour together?
And my son, my Seth.
If I could change a thing
it would be the need for you
to leave
the path to damnation
you chose. I sit, drowning
sorrow in a bottle, look out
over the fields, harvested
and soon fallow, consider
the coming freeze and
this
I wonder: is the blossoming
pain in my chest more than
just a broken heart? I pull
a weary breath, knowing
my time is short in this
world.
&nbs
p; Seth
Choreographing a New Show
Is apparently time-consuming.
David has been working overtime,
which bothers me not at all. I enjoy
his company, but I’m not lonely
without it, and when he comes home,
despite the long hours he puts in,
he seems energized. Maybe it’s just
passion for creation, or maybe it’s got
everything to do with white lines
snorted in dressing rooms. Probably both.
I’m glad he refuses to maintain a stash
here, or I might be tempted to indulge
far more often than I do. I like the cool,
numbing escape; love the delicious rush
of goose bumps and shivers. But not
enough to lose the “me” I’ve worked hard
to find and encourage in a more positive
direction. Coke is more addictive than
alcohol, and that’s saying a lot. I’m trying
desperately to keep a handle on both.
At First
I thought the reason David won’t keep
drugs in this place was because he worried
about getting ripped off by his staff
or me. Turns out, he’s just paranoid
about losing the house in a raid. But,
if he were to think about it logically,
law enforcement must have some idea
about what goes on here at the parties.
Seems like all the city’s movers and
shakers attend them, and that probably
includes a politician or ten, and maybe
even a keeper-of-the-peace or two.
Even without actually witnessing
him use, it’s not much of a stretch
to conclude famed choreographer
David Burroughs has a tidy drug habit
himself. Ah, show business, especially
Sin City show biz! Sexy girls. Sexy boys.
And enough stimulation to keep both
going all hours of the day and night.
To Keep
From falling into the same trap,
I have to stay busy, and not just with
Have Ur Cake entertainment. I need
something wholesome in my life, so
I’m volunteering at a center serving
LGBTQ youth. At eighteen, I’m old
enough to work here, but young enough
so queer teens will feel comfortable
hanging out with me. I can’t officially
counsel them, but I can share my own
experiences and try to help them become
more at ease about living in their unique