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.

Poetry by Dythandra

My Summer Job

The parentals keep secrets so badly
The brochures, laid under only a couple of newspapers
Hiding on my father's desk.

Tuesday nights--the routine never changes.
They bowl
I prowl.

"Summer Camp Jobs--Good Pay, Great Times!"
I'd rather stick needles in my eyes.

Still, forewarned is forearmed.
I look over each one--the first two are religious camps,
I laugh out loud.
The Baptists and Jews would love me.

Then the next--a cheerleading camp.
I could push the progress of humanity 100 years ahead
As an arsenic-laden kitchen lackey.

I scan the rest--equestrian, swimming, tennis...
Not likely.

Then I see the one they've underlined.
"Lake Akinokee Arts Retreat"
They are clever--they've spotted the only camp
With the potential for me to warm
From loathing to apathy.

They drop hints over the next few days:
"What do you plan for the summer, dear?"
and
"Wouldn't you like to have some money for the fall sales
At that lovely new corset shop that opened in the fetish district?"

Like they've ever even shopped there.

I play dumb.
"I just thought I'd stay here,
Cherishing the people I love."

That was overkill. They realize I know the truth.

I could probably have worn them down,
Pointed out my intolerance for sunlight,
Reminded them of my tendency to sleepwalk.

But they have a trump card, and play it well:
Aunt Mabel.

A battleship of a woman, she always arrives
Prepared for war.
Her handbag laden with pamphlets,
Explaining why rock music is a tool of the devil
And gay marriage a sign of the apocalypse.

I might stay and clash with her,
But for her pair of endlessly yapping chihuahuas,
Which she calls her "children".

I extract a few concessions before I concede;
My room locked, forbidden,
And no questions asked next fall
When I spend my summer earnings
On my long awaited dermal ink.

The camp is all I feared--trees and a lake
And no "personal music devices" allowed.
Apparently we make our own music
Voices of the damned, no doubt.

I am, as new staff, assigned to a team.
My leader is perkier than a coked-up cocker spaniel
And she shows me my bunk, beneath hers,
Surrounded by a dozen more of her ilk.

"We'll have such fun!" she exclaims.
I stare at her, wondering,
How long it would take them to find her body.

After the first few days, I find my niche,
Or at least a job assignment,
That allows me the least amount of human contact.

The "painting cabin"--little more than a greenhouse with easels,
But it's far removed from everything else
And buys me brief moments of solitude.

Turns out it's also near the aptly named "makeout rock"
Where my digital camera captures
Useful leverage for later bargaining.

I scowl through the endless "fireside evenings"
Where we sing tacky, politically-incorrect songs.
Passed down from generations of campers previous,
With refrains including "the red man our brother".

Then another exercise to loathe,
We're all assigned a "secret friend"--
Someone to buy special presents for
During our twice-monthly escape to an actual town.

Had I been blessed to draw the name of some stepford in training,
My task would have been simple.
Laxative chocolates or something slimy.
But such was not to be.

I unfold a paper to read "Philip".
I sigh. He's the life guard who tries a little too hard,
Perhaps oblivious that his ectomorphic physique and unfortunate complexion
Seal his fate in this shallow pond.

I've heard stories through my less than satisfactory earplugs,
Giggled after lights out in my cabin.
Seems Philip has courted a half dozen of my roommates,
And each sends him to the next target--their goal:
To each have a chance to skewer his hopes before Labor Day.

Against my natural predilections
I surreptitiously gather information.
Seems he likes toffee, and tries to charm with card tricks.
Unfortunately, one of the female lifeguards,
"Accidentally" dropped his deck of cards into the lake.

I make the purchases, then steathily sneak them to his mailslot.
He is clearly pleased the next day,
Demonstrating for all, his legerdomain.

It would be heartwarming,
Had I not left my heart elsewhere for safekeeping
Before condescending to waste eight weeks of my life
In this fresh-faced hell.

Meanwhile I receive my "gifts":
A "Girl's guide to cosmetics" and
"Chicken Soup for the Adolescent Soul".

Unfortunately for my secret benefactor,
Carrying cash is not her practice,
And I easily discover the secret friend
By checking out debit receipts
In our cabin's wastebasket,
And matching to the offending card
When all others are asleep.

The benefactor of my largesse, meanwhile,
Has managed to figure out my identity.
Seems the rest had already proven
Their lack of compassion sufficiently.

He sought me out, quietly, thanked me.
I shrugged it off--no point in denial.
Nonetheless, an..."acquaintanceship" blossomed.
He knew not to presume more.

We had one bond--our loathing of the others.
My time alone cleaning and setting up the art cabin,
His standing watch for hours at the swimming dock,
It was natural our imaginations had free reign.

We took our revenge patiently on the entire camp.
Seems an old science camp that once occupied this place
Left some supplies around--we find a length of tubing
Perfect to cover the ceiling vent the bats use,
And reroute them into my cabin.

We steal the square dance cds,
And replace them with death metal
I purchased on another trip to town

And the printer that makes the poster-sized copies of student art work?
Seems it also does a lovely job
On those photos I took so surreptitiously
Of antics at Makeout Rock.
The most graphic ones posted everywhere--
Of the girl who provided my self-help books.

Revenge is a dish best served 24 hours a day
It helps to kill the hours--'til it's time to collect
My well-earned tattoo.

Poetry by Dythandra

Faint Praise

The letter arrived like others before it,
School letterhead, wisely hidden
In a plain envelope.

My mother was home that day, unexpectedly
And found it before I had the chance
To feed my friend, the shredder.

"You are cordially invited..."
Odd. Usually they begin:
"We would like to discuss some concerns..."
Is it a trick?
Like those who are invited for lottery winnings,
But find only traffic court awaits.

No such... luck.
To my mother's hardly concealed glee,
She and paternal parental
Are invited to
"A celebration of excellence".

She finishes, triumphantly, and glances at us
Across the remains of my favorite dinner.
You'd think it was her achievement
This epistle arrived to proclaim.

My father was more circumspect
He glanced at me, awaiting a cue
Some clue to guide
His "spontaneous" reaction.

I searched quickly through the catalogue
Of all my best expressions
And settled on disdain.

The queen of this moment was not disheartened
By my lack of enthusiasm--she hardly could have expected any.

It was her moment--a small vindication
That my existence, traumatic
From the moment my arrival on stage
Destroyed her body's chances
To reproduce again...

...through the dozen meetings with school counselors,
Those "paraprofessionals" with little more to offer
Than platitudes punctuated with nods
And worried clucking.

But this--some small allowance by the system
That I was worthy of more
Than tired phone calls from frightened adults
Afraid to meet my glare.

In best award show tradition, there was no hint
Of what kudos I had won.
This, of course, allowed my mother's imagination
The freedom to run rampant
Through fields of academic glory.

I knew in an instant
The source of the situation.

My art teacher--young, "offbeat"
As I once heard an older staffer prattle,
Had chosen to name me
For some token award.

Clearly nouveau nihilism
Is in this season.

The evening of the ceremony
My "wardrobe" was there, laid out on my bed.
I can still be surprised at times
By the poor woman's naivete.

Still, a proper fashion statement
Would be difficult to pull off--
Any disciple of the "offbeat"
Only panders to expectations
When seeking to offend.

Finally, annoyed, I settled for my traditional
"What the hell are you looking at"
Combination of black eye accentuation
Accompanied by the rhythm
Of the heaviest boots in my closet.

Just as we began to pull out of the driveway,
I made some excuse about needing my gum
And ran back into the the house.

The jar with the snakes I captured in the garden
Was easily concealed under my jacket.

I shall justify my acclaim
With a little demonstration
Of spontaneous "performance art."

I hope my mother's brought her migraine pills.

Poetry by Dythandra

Tasting the Oxymoron

Seems a bit strange, the new "requirement"
For all senior students:
25 hours of "Volunteer Work".

We have an assembly, Nuremberg light--
All the overinflated are there
To guide us on our way.

Even the mayor is in on the act
Seems everyone wants us to know
Just how much our "volunteering"
Will be appreciated.

I snicker with the rest,
When, three speakers in,
They introduce the rep. from the Boy Scouts.
Short pants should have an expiration date.

After the agitprop, we mill about
Wandering from table to table
Seeking our respective niches.

I go outside--gymnasiums have always made me nauseous.

My hope they'd ignore me, sadly, is dashed.
Two weeks later, I'm called to the counselor.

"We need to find you a volunteer placement, dearie"

I shudder.

She pushes some brochures in front of me.
I shake my head, but she insists.

"It's required. Everyone has to do it."
There is no compromise; her eyes are like steel.

Fine, I think to myself.
They can't say they didn't have a chance to avoid this.

My volunteer placements are shortlived:

Seems the "reading to the seniors" program wasn't thrilled with me
(I didn't see any "no erotica" sign anywhere in that building)

Then there was the preschool.
I simply took a picture of each child standing beside me,
Then sent the lovely photos home.

Apparently enrollment dropped significantly the next day.

I knew my stint as a "candy striper" would be doomed from the start.
Apparently they didn't believe me
When I told them my assignment card
Spelled it with two "p's".

Finally they pulled me in the office and admitted defeat.
Still, against all hopes, the poor wretch just has to ask:
"Isn't there anything on the volunteer board you'd like to do?"

I smirked, then glanced at the array of cards.

Suddenly, my eyes lit up, and I snatched a card from the wall.
"This one." She glances at it, and starts to say something.
Then, thinking better of it, she hands it back along with a printout--
Directions to my last chance.

My thrill is short-lived, though.
Seems my new "employers" are selfish--
They won't let me take anything home.

Damned blood bank bastards.