Poetry by Dythandra

She found me on her hallway safari
Not hard--my plumage isn't subtle
More caution than camouflage.

Hi... her voice trails off.
I see the camera round her neck
The rest not hard to guess.

I was wondering, uhm, if you've ever modeled?
I let the question hang an awkward moment.
Depends what you call modeling
Then I turn and walk away.
She doesn't follow.

I think little of it, until later
A note folded, dropped inside my locker
A web address scrawled on a scrap of paper
and underneath, "A sample of my work".

My curiosity wins out;
I visit the library computers,
But such sites are deemed beyond the pale
By our educational censorati.

Once home I see her "work"
Something called "model mayhem"
--a trifle tame for my taste,
which runs more to tattoed, pierced and pale.

Her page is like the rest,
A couple dozen pics of classmates, friends
All mimicking the poses
Taped in the lockers of adolescent boys.

She spots me in a corner two days later,
Barricaded behind my sketchbook
Where she is an unwitting model

So... did you like my pics?
I shrug and keep on drawing
I, uhm, I'd really love to shoot you
I direct a withering glance her way
The feeling is quite mutual

After a few moments I realize she hasn't left
So against my better judgement, I ask:
Why would you want me to model for you?

She looks uncomfortable--do I detect a blush?
You're kind of... exotic.
I contemplate violence for a moment,
Then slowly shake my head and mutter
I don't do freak show, thanks.

No, I mean you're, uh, interesting
And Gerry said I needed to push the envelope...

In spite of myself, I find I want to know
Who's Gerry?

Just a photographer, she explains.
A real one.

I laugh out loud. I'd seen his 'profile'
Just like the rest of them.
Creepy 28 year old guys,
Living in their mother's basements
Playing on the dreams
of misguided children.

Have you met 'Gerry'? I ask her.
She admits she hasn't--no surprise.
Seems Gerry has suggested
They might work together sometime,
When she brings him a suitable muse.

He can't troll the playgrounds for prey,
But she can bait and lure them to his den.

I suggest I'd love to play the game,
And allow one test shot--my instructions then are clear
I tell her go ahead--arrange the shoot.

As expected, Gerry's more than willing
To do the shoot--for free!
His largesse knows no bounds.

It's not surprising when he then insists
We skip a day of school to visit him
No doubt his mother works a daytime job

I'd looked at more than just her photo site--
I found her Deviantart, and read her blog
Its seems my newfound friend has daddy issues,
An angry, large controlling kind of man.

I craft the letter on a school computer,
Filled with some innuendo, then sign the name
Of the one who plans to make us prey.

I hide across the street--make sure she's gone,
Then tape the note where daddy's sure to see
When coming home from work down at the precinct.

She didn't come to school again--too bad
I had some drawings I had thought to share,
But apparently her education's relocated,
To St. Teresa's Boarding School for Girls.

I checked out Gerry's web site the next week,
It now points to his latest Craiglist ad,
I see he wants to buy a blender cheap,
Seems he won't need solid food for quite some time.