This piece was written by some young whore, I forget her name, that I used to see often at a small coffee shop in downtown Manitou. She wrote this and read it to me in sort of a strange way. Here’s what happened… She was writing one day and so I went up to her, as she was not unattractive, and asked to hear about her work. She beamed the smile of the devil at me and began to read. Now what she read I cannot remember, or do not choose to as it was of no great importance. All I can say is that it was cute and lusty. For a long time she read this bit of prose and I became lost in her words. I became deaf to what the words were and could only focus on the tone of her voice. It was smooth and flowed. It had the quality of maybe perhaps an angel and I became hypnotized. All the time I was thinking to myself that only a devil could have such a voice, as an angel would never woo to deceive through means of her voice. I could see what was happening, but I listened on.

Soon an interesting thing happened to me. She stood up as she was reading, and I too stood up. Now maybe it was just proper, but it had more the feel of a guided rise. I kept my focus on her voice. I now was unable, or unwilling, I forget which, to break the stare.

She stood up and walked right out the door, me following like stupor; the patrons of the shoppe looking on in wonderment as to my predicament. Truly the devil herself! I thought. I followed her right down the street.

I tried then to listen to what she was saying. What it was that she was reading. But to my surprise, I could not make sense of it. It was plainly English, with no bizarre dialect or slang. I could hear the words and understand the words, but nothing would tell me what it was that she was saying! A noun is a verb. A verb is a noun. And a made up word is an adjective. I followed her for what seemed like hours, but I had no sense to understand the hands of any clock we passed. I followed her right over to the gates of Evergreen Cemetery.

Reaching the gates she stopped and said nothing. There was a shovel leaning against the side of the road. Just placed there as if in some picturesque scene. How convenient for the picture taker that the diggers had lost their shovel so precisely. Looking at it and then at me a single phase ended her read story… “Drop Dead!”

And so what could I do? I dropped dead. Right there at the gate. All the time I kept my gaze upon her, as if waiting for her to explode into flames, at once proving my theories as to her origin and motivation. I strode to the far end of the gate to receive the shovel. It was actually quite light and easy to wield. The groundskeepers must have been faking 35% of their sweat. But then again all the funerals I’d observed were in the heart of summer. It was late September now, and as I witnessed her next commands, the fogs developed that tiny snow.

The devil plays tricks I thought. So she clearly would not explode. She was genuine flesh. No devil in her. Perhaps devil motivated is all. But at the same time the devil would not go so far. He tires easily as we all know. A poor old dumb bastard is all, and all in all we peoples have learned all that he is made of. And so moot. But the thought of explosive women with a voice of magic was my only comfort now.

She read on and I followed. Deep into the yards is where we found a recent grave. Specific again to her written lecture, as she made reference to the inscription on the stone. All I could do now was dig. And arduously dag I. With each throw of the shovel she had another word. Wicked and piercing, meant to torture. It was a long time now, and this time I looked often at my watch, but only to prove to myself that the coffee I long left was now cold. The instant I hit the coffin I looked up at her. Was there no more sight filled with lascivious delight than hers with short skirt and legs that screamed? The words stopped at that moment and she looked. Looked at me! Looked with power! Her power was in her hate. And hate she did, not of me or my susceptibility, or the nature of the yards, or of that long cold box. It was inside it, that she hated. And I opened it.

The figure inside was fresh. And maybe it was me and my state of hearing the words, but this figure had the face of a thousand. And not to say that it was timeless or plain, but I mean to say that it changed… and often. My eyes opened wide at this sight. Was it alive? It moved in time and space, but remained seated comfortably. The cramped container only seemed to serve its purpose.

A young boy, my mother, President Washington, an old woman with mascara filled tears, a young girl, the whore at hand, the groundskeeper. All these faces even seemed familiar to me, though I did not know the majority of them. Each face was two-faced and had split personalities. And all this I saw and knew as the thing changed every split second.

From the black spot of her eye she read again, but she knew the word. She had not looked at her book of scribblings to read this word. She knew it, the word. She spoke… FUCK!

This was merely an act of overkill I thought. After all, there was nothing I could to do to standdown. Her orders were not only wicked, but so lovely as to compel me forward and follow. For I am a man who enjoys nothing but beauty. If beauty walks then I am a slave and follow. I have no will, and perhaps this why I was chosen for such a hideous task. Know she my weakness, which again makes me wonder... she could not have understood my history or my personality. So much as to weave me into her plans? So perceptive she must be to see all this in me and then be confident enough to act.

But then again I think back to what she is. I was running then. Not moving, still frozen at the thought of exploding in such a way as I had previously imagined her doing by the gate. But I was running. I was losing my breath because of my speed. Not geography did I cover. But to accomplish her commands I could not be witness to my future actions. Ran.

Pathos is the only good word here. It stands out and well so, because that is where my thoughts then went. She had spent all her life under command. Innocence and childs she did not know. Fuck was the command she was given and now she gave it to me. She had fucked a thousand times. As many times as the face of this strange figure, six feet under. And yet in all of that, that which must be so foreign to me or you, this was the only thing that was not a fuck. With its great terribleness, its immense horrible nature, it only just managed to rape her.

And that was the nature of what she communicated in that single word she told to me through her pupil. Her experience was of such a state that it took this strange beast, that now lay dead and changing, to rape her. And rape her it did and not long ago, as I could tell from the newness of the grave. Rape yes, but also did it show to her that the state of her life was not what she had wanted or planned. Her life choices had led her to this she thought. If only she had not decided to start with fuck. Maybe that first time long ago would not have been so terrible.

This time my feet followed my own commands. Her eyes in seeing the thing had relinquished their hold on the readings that hypnotized me and seemed to focus in on the box and its contents. Over hills and stones I went. Away was what I wanted. And reaching the great gate that surrounds the property I was damned if I could find a way out. I shook. My thoughts were returning. Slowly the whore’s effect loosened. I breathed. But that cannot be. I heard like a gunshot in my face the shouting screaming whore and up a tree I lept.

From that place I could across the yards see that she had not moved but was standing over the hole I made. Her hate and abuse poured freely and the thing seemed to glow, in a welcoming sort of way. The bark was bleeding my hands, but I could not break loose my stare.

In the morning I found that my eyes were dry and crisp from not blinking. The air was chilled and the snow did not set. The grave I could still see was fresh but covered with earth. My thoughts sloshed around like I was drunk. And a strange chirping caught my attention. It was the groundsman and a cop inviting me down the tree.

Days later I returned to the coffee shoppe and did not find the whore, for I’m sure that she exploded and or was is buried by herself. But strangely I discovered her book that she wrote in. And here it is…