in which witness is borne: birds, politics, fiction and critical art theory

Trumpet/Part 2

Sunday, December 04, 2005
Below, part 2 of Trumpet. See previous posting for Part 1. PART 3 IS HERE.

The Girl reaches down and touches the stack of magazines, about a dozen, and without hesitating grasps and pulls them from under the loose wooden slats of the fence. She wipes her hand, front and back, on her jeans and shuffles the magazines slowly. They are porno magazines, each one with a cover picture of a smiling, writhing woman dressed in lacy bra and panties. Some of them are in foreign languages. They look kind of boring, actually. Or at least, all the same. She spreads them on the pavement and stares a moment in the low light, wondering what to do with them. Should she report it to other kids on the block? Or try to stick them back under the same fence? Or throw them in a garbage bin further up the block? But night is coming, and action is required. So she takes off her cardigan, picks up the topmost magazine, and wraps the sweater clumsily around it. She will read it later.
She didn't remember about the magazine until much later that evening, after a fight with her brother which left her dizzy with anxiety and loneliness. She loped into her room and sat heavily on her unmade bed. Quickly the loneliness transformed into a feeling of freedom, as she unwrapped the sweater to look at the curious photographs of naked women. She hummed to herself the Haydn trumpet solo: black, flowing hair with shaved vagina, oiled breasts and inexplicable high-heeled sandals, hands buried in hair like a shampoo commercial, softly glowing lights, pillowy cushions and purple velvet sofas, legs kicking in an upside-down splits, glistening lips parted softly in seductive snarls, smoky makeup over heavy-lidded eyes, all those poses of yielding...

"Wait, wait, y'all- What is that?"

"You see what it is, it's a little kid, man. Why's she up there on that screen, though? Man, get over there and fix that TV."'

The Girl closed the magazine with a slapping sound. She'd heard something--or rather, someone. People talking.

She opened the door and went into her parents' room. No one was there, the room dark. TV off. She listened. Only the metallic clanking of the radiators.
8:58 PM :: ::
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