Write Her Story
by Lori M. Meyers
Glenda stood in an unlit corner, watching me, lips edged in red, her lids covered by thick black swirl. I smelled her perfume, heard the swish of her cloak, felt her obsession in my own as I walked from one exhibit to another, a collection of my work which, for years, I’d buried deep in backyard dirt or inside garbage bags festering at the landfill.
I owed this all to her. Her idea, her creation, my delight in seeing my prizes so beautifully displayed; some behind glass, others cordoned off by velvet ropes. One, exhibit 6B, the foot of that screaming bank teller, my nicks and slices so perfectly perpendicular. The next, exhibit 7A, a torso torn from all it was born with, now a fleshy island nailed discreetly onto a slanted board. That torso? She’d been an executive on…
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