Posted: September 3, 2007 in Beauty, Dark, Death, Imagery, Life, Love

The whore leans against the wall, bare breasts exposed fully to the night, the night of Amsterdam, the night that is just another shift, the moon a timecard to be punched over and over until it is pockmarked with holes. She stares at this timecard with a sort of sad wonder in her eyes.
She wonders when the end will be. Many endings, not just the end of this night, but the end of her job, the end of her life. She wonders which will come first.
The customers flock greedily from one vendor to the other, negotiating prices and scurrying into holes in the wall. One by one the women of the street disappear, all but the one who still stares into the heavens.
Perhaps it is her immense beauty that stays the roving hands of the rats who pounce upon the other whores like so many pieces of cheese. She is Spanish, with fathomless brown eyes and dark hair, a deep, thick mane, tossed carelessly away from her face and left flowing down her back.
She wears a simple white dress, glowing in the moonlight of Amsterdam; nothing else covers her body.
However tempting she may be, there is no one who will touch her.
She needs no money.
She knows she is on her last legs.
She feels like crying.
Instead she pierces the moon with a stare, one so powerful that the silver orb, hovering in the sky, is broken. It shatters, shining pieces raining down on the woman. They are cool, cooler even than the night air, though comfortably so.
She is dancing.
The shards swarm around her, caressing her body with the loving hands she has never known, far from the violence and lust that her world has been filled with.
Those pieces, they form a triangular cocoon around her, spinning faster and faster, just a blur. The shape slows, revolving and shifting to a dusky steel coloring.
The woman is reborn, the cocoon breaks and she is eternal, a silver goddess who knows no evil, no hatred.
She is dancing.
The goddess continues to twirl and dip as the whore, the shell, the woman with sad wonder in her eyes falls.
A pirouette from the goddess, a convulsion from the whore. The whore is dying, ending her life; the goddess has just begun hers.
Early that morning, as the other prostitutes emerge from their wall-holes, the sister is discovered, the dead whore. And that is all she is now, a dead hooker, one with a heart condition and no money to pay for an operation.
Today she lies dead and forgotten. But last night she was an angel.

  1. goodnightcat says:

    Beautiful, absolutely brilliant. Great job on this.

  2. Timmy says:

    You’re a fantastic writer. I will read more!

  3. larkie says:

    i’ve already told you, but your first paragraph is stunning. comparing the moon to a timecard? ahhhhmygod. you made my mouth fall open again.

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