They lay there, stripped, twisted, and shamed, but pretty in all their potential. I flip through their pages, like silken hair, wondering what went wrong, searching for that first sign of trouble. It is there, hidden deep between lines and the words. Their stories bleed ink, so giving and feverish with want and need, to be looked upon, admired, loved, that their loss fills me with blame and disappointment.
My unpublished stories, I call them my hookers because they want attention, validation, and of course, a little cash would be nice too. I try to make them attractive and entertaining, but hell, it’s a tough world out there, and now my beauties lay slain and hemorrhaging across my desk. They will be autopsied, but the coroner (my muse) will declare it a wasteful, barbaric homicide and demand additional manpower (that’d be me).
I know there will be more. That’s the way of this tough life called writing. But what does one do with lost potential? Scarred beauty? Where, how, and what do you do with your dead hookers?
FYI: I have nothing against hookers, dead or alive. I think my best friend was a hooker, my husband sometimes calls me hooker, and I found some strange things in my grandmother’s closet once.