The Trip

Last Updated (Monday, 23 November 2009 05:14) Written by Megan Whitney Sunday, 25 October 2009 20:33

Austin

1

The girls went out that night, having nowhere else to go.  They never had anywhere to go.  Stuck in place, begging to get out of their mobile home; Betty was left behind.
      6^th St walkers blow in breezy night air off the river.  Searching, scanning bars for that one man who could take them home, take them in for just this night, and wash them in acid.  They found him rolling on cots from side to side; his scent a coppered drum beating in the room while Indigenous peoples of Mexico circled road, crying out in pain.  The agony a turn on for the night, he solicited the use.

     Afterwards the trail built up sticky, filth lined the walls, jettisoned out Scarbrough’s Truths: Betty was left behind.

Cultivating Life

Last Updated (Tuesday, 30 November 1999 00:00) Written by Megan Whitney Tuesday, 13 October 2009 00:54

The thought occured to me...

Last Updated (Monday, 23 November 2009 05:08) Written by Megan Whitney Wednesday, 08 July 2009 18:51

Yes, I could have been a genius, but I opted for being a glass of orange juice instead.

Wild Elephants

Last Updated (Thursday, 07 January 2010 02:57) Written by Megan Whitney Thursday, 03 July 2008 20:15

This is the beginning of a short story I've been working on for a while now.  I like it, but some people have had concern with the dialog.  I'd love your feedback. Thanks!
Megan

A bird does not sing because it has an answer...it sings because it has a song.

“Can you be a dirty girl?”  I look up.  His pale, American skin shines like a light bulb in the dimly lit room.  Starring into his eyes I think maybe there’s a connection.  A connection on some primal level, on some intimate level, on some humane level; then this would all end.  Nothing.  Instead, are two cloudy holes peaking out of an icy mask.  My face begins to flush, lips tingle.  Crinkling my brow I can feel the tears start to well up.  He won’t stop, not this one.  Not any of them.  They never do.  Grabbing my arms he forces me closer.  I inhale, rancid.  The smell of curdled milk and cigarettes lets out of his mouth as he opens it and swallows my soul. 

            Long and curving around our vacationing villas, that weren’t, but south of the clouds.  The sun was beginning to set on the waters, and muddied over from rains; as it fell sinking deeper into the Earth below—washing blood into, flooding through our home.  Every night the same, tainting our life-line in ancient times; no longer, as tourists dressed for dinner.

             Barefoot I walked, one foot in front of the other balanced in perfect persuasion, pleasing ancestors long forgotten by governments in cities far from this.  Free, passing homes of rotted wood, drafty and wet.  “Charming.”  She smiled down at me with a face painted orange and red.  Nature’s beauty.  No wonder their men did not want them.  Traditional dress royal and rich.  Gold-lined linen.  A beauty of our culture, in American flesh.  “Dear give her some money.”  I did not understand. 

            “Long Yang, come eat your dinner.”  Nai Nai was calling. 

            I pocketed the money I was given, along with a little elephant carved out of wood “for good luck” and ran home.  This happened sometimes because I was poor and Americans were stupid. 

            “Stupid Americans, ha!  We are the ones who exploit ourselves.” 

            “I saw the tourists riding the elephants today.”

            “Those elephants are not for riding.”

            “I think it’d be fun.” 

            “Do you want someone to ride you?  No.  It is dangerous.  They are wild animals.”

Forcefully he kisses me.  Lips pressing against teeth, I clench my jaw.  Then, throwing me against the cold dirt wall he said, “You filthy slut!”  Smack!  His firm hand rocks my cheek as his breath quickens, keeping pace with the beats of my heart, broken and beaten down.  Holding my breath I try not to cry out.  Again he hits me, this time slamming his fist into my collar bone.

            “Eat your rice.”  Nai Nai spoke slow taking long, deep breaths between her words.  I didn’t want rice.  I never wanted rice.   

            “When is Ma Ma coming back?” 
            “Soon.”  Always soon.  I never saw my parents.  Ma Ma worked at a garment factory in the city and Ba Ba worked on a tobacco plantation somewhere far away.  They worked for money they never saw.  They worked to send all their money back to us.  We never saw it either. 

            I handed Nai Nai the money the Americans had given me.  A pat on the head followed by a coughing stint that was less brief than usual.  She was getting sicker and I could not take care of her.