DADDY by Kristin Garth

Kristin Garth, Short Stories

PATTY GIDDIS                                                                Inbox – iCloud  3:23 am

 

Fine let’s talk this way

 

To:  mgiddis@aol.com

 

Daddy,

 

Maybe this way you won’t hang up on me again or worry about my roommate knowing my sordid secret.  She’s not even here to peek over my shoulder at what I’m typing – actually would never do that – the nicest person I know in the state of Utah.  I’d never tell her what he did, but even if I did, she would never spread it around.  She wears a ruby ring her father got her to remind her of the value of a virtuous woman.  He’d probably make her change rooms.

 

I’m not going to press charges, okay?  Does that make you happy.  Nobody would believe me anyway, and it’s just going to cause a lot of trouble.  I just want to come home.  Please let me come home.  I’ll finish my degree at UWF.  It’s not going to work out here.  I’m begging you to understand.

 

Patty

 

 

 

PATTY GIDDIS                                                                         Inbox – iCloud 6:01 pm

 

Please don’t be mad

 

To: mgiddis@aol.com

 

Stayed up all night thinking after I wrote your letter.  To be honest with you, I haven’t been sleeping much since it happened.  Was already ashamed of myself and prepared to tell you I won’t be asking to come home again, before I read your letter — after, yes, even more so. 

 

It’s not like I want to talk about it either.  Things have happened though – more things beyond my control.  My friend Tia, the one person who knows everything – who saw me right after the camping trip, injured and not in my right mind, Daddy, you have to understand that – she’s told the Bishop.  It wasn’t her fault.  The Bishop saw me leave church early today.  They were singing “I Am A Child of God,” and I felt sick to my stomach and ran outside.  Tia says the Bishop cornered her after sacrament and said, “Did Patty do something she shouldn’t have done?”  I mean what could she said to that, Daddy?  She told him, “No, somebody did something to her.”

 

Bishop Perry came to the dorms.  I didn’t want to tell him anything.  Tia was there, holding my hand.  He said to me, “If you don’t tell me, Patty, what this young man did to you, he will do it to someone else.”

 

I mean, what was I supposed to say that?

 

I told him everything Marc did – all of it, as best I could.  Didn’t want to tell his name.  Like you said, we do not want trouble.

 

My bishop’s a shrink, Daddy – that’s his job.  I know how you feel about those – and how you said the church felt about them, but Mormonism is a lot different in Florida than it is in Utah.  I don’t know what to say.  It was never my idea to come here in the first place. 

 

He listened to every detail of it – all the stuff that you don’t want to me to speak about, that I was asleep when it started, how hard he choked me and the bruises but his soft words in my ear.   He said this kind of person chooses the smallest and weakest victims.  And then he said, “If he’s married, Patty, that means he’s going to have a child someday, and he will molest this child unless you do something right now.”

 

I mean, Daddy, I know he’s married.  He talked about it in the van on the way to the camping trip and that he just had a baby. 

 

I told him the name, and he wrote it down on his yellow legal pad.

 

I’m sorry, Daddy. 

 

 

 

PATTY GIDDIS                                                    Inbox – iCloud 11:03 am

 

I am the worst daughter

 

To:  Mgiddis@aol.com

 

 

Daddy,

 

Michelle called last night.  She said you’re sick.  I’m the worst daughter.  Haven’t asked about you in days.  Just me me me and it it it.  All I think about is myself.

 

Are you feeling better today?  I would call, Daddy, but I’m so afraid to say the wrong thing and have you hang up on me again. I think it’s better we communicate like this where I can finish my thoughts and you don’t have to worry about anyone listening and judging me or maligning my character with talk about “it.” 

 

I’m better.  I really am.

 

Bishop Perry came by to see me.  Joella told him I hadn’t been eating or sleeping, and so he’s sending me to the counseling center.  Please don’t be angry.  I know how you feel about that.  I even told, “My father doesn’t want me speaking to any counselors or anyone – especially about ‘it.’”  But, Daddy, Bishop Perry said, “Well, Patty, your Heavenly Father does.”  And he told me to tell you that.

 

Then the wildest thing happened, Bishop Perry told me I had to come with him and have lunch.  I tried to tell him my not eating had nothing to do with “it,” but he didn’t believe me even when I explained how Joy ordered all the female soloists’ costumes a size too small on purpose, so I have to lose five pounds by next week or someone who fits into the costume dances the part.  Bishop Perry said he didn’t care about any of that, and he took Joella and I to Cosmo’s and ordered bacon cheeseburgers and malts, without even asking.  It was the best meal I had all year.

 

I really miss your voice Dad and I hope you’re going to be okay.

 

Patty

 

 

PATTY GIDDIS                                                                         InboxiCloud  11:09 pm

 

I know we just got off the phone ….

 

To:  Mgiddis@aol.com

 

Daddy,

 

Thank you for calling me tonight.  I know you say you’re getting better but I do wish you’d go to a doctor.  I’m doing it again, and I promised I wouldn’t. 

 

Is “break a leg” an appropriate thing to say to debaters too?  If so, say it to Michelle. 

 

I’m nervous about tomorrow.  I wish I had her strength.  Thank you for being understanding.  I know it’s not how you’d like me to handle my problems.  I wish I was strong enough to do it your way.

 

Patty

 

 

PATTY GIDDIS                                                                         Inbox-iCloud 3:23 pm

 

Counseling

 

To:  Mgiddis@aol.com

 

Daddy,

 

I went to counseling today.  Cried for about an hour and a half straight.  My counselor does not look like a shrink at all —  or anyone else at this school.  He was wearing black jeans and a leather jacket and had a motorcycle helmet on his desk. His name is Dr. Graves.

 

Asked me so many questions, just getting to know me.  All about the camping trip, all the conversations I had with Marc on the way there, in the van.  Asked me, Daddy, why I didn’t press charges.  I told him everything you said.  He says if I was three months younger, he would have had to file a complaint himself.  But I’m 18, so don’t worry, he can’t do anything.

 

He wanted to know everything I knew about Marc – a lot I didn’t know.  I only knew him one night.  He’s 30 and has a wife, poli sci major.  Marc knows a lot more about me – even where my dorm is apparently.  I’m so stupid like that, Daddy.  I answered all those kinds of questions in the back of van surrounded by those older girls who knew him and acted like he was a saint.  Dr. Graves said Marc knew what he was doing, and it was not my fault, but I don’t know – I just feel like something bad is going to happen, again, for sure.  I can’t shake it.  I know you don’t want to hear that.

 

Dr. Graves asked if I had a boyfriend.  Told him about Roger and how he wants me to transfer to UT Austin to be with him, but how you said I need to be an independent woman.  He asked if Roger was Mormon, and I laughed. He asked me how you felt about that?  I told the truth, Daddy, that you hate it. 

 

I asked Dr. Graves about what Bishop Perry said about Marc having to go to counseling himself.  Dr. Graves said that he certainly hadn’t come in yet.  I was surprised he would just tell me that – I mean isn’t there doctor/patient confidentiality — but he did.  It’s what I like about Dr. Graves, I feel like for the first time he’s really on my side completely. 

 

I even asked him, “Well, I mean, couldn’t he be seeing another counselor?” Dr. Graves just said, “I mean, I’ll find out for sure, but men like him are usually sent to me.”

 

The time went so fast in there, and then he said he wanted me to give me a prescription for some sleeping pills.  Asked me if I was depressed, and I broke down crying and couldn’t stop.  He scribbled on a prescription pad.  Told me to take one tonight and go to bed early.  That I needed it – I was too pretty to do this to myself.  That was such a nice thing to say.

 

I have practice for the show tonight, but then I’m going home and going straight to bed.  I know you don’t believe in this stuff – counseling, medication, but Daddy I can’t tell you how nice it is to know I’ll be able to sleep.

 

 

 

PATTY GIDDIS                                                                                       Inbox – iCloud 7:13 am

 

Sorry I missed your called last night.

 

To:  Mgiddis@aol.com

 

Daddy,

 

Sorry I missed your call last night.  Dr. Graves was right.  I slept through the night.  Joella couldn’t even wake me.  Got your message this morning and tried to call, but you’d already left for work.   Feel like my head is full of cotton, but Dr. Graves says it’s to be expected and will wear off in a couple of hours. 

 

Thank you for thinking about me.  I’m actually okay.

 

Patty

 

 

 

PATTY GIDDIS                                                                                       Inbox-iCloud 11:12 am

 

Opening night!

 

To:  Mgiddis@aol.com

 

Daddy,

 

Tried on my costume two days ago, and it actually fit!  If I don’t eat anything today, I may actually look thin up there.  Even Joy couldn’t find anything negative to say.  Wish you were here. 

 

Patty

 

 

 

 

PATTY GIDDIS                                                                                       Inbox-iCloud 11:03 pm

 

 

I don’t even know what to say.

 

To: Mgiddis@aol.com

 

Daddy,

 

Dr. Graves and I got into an awful fight today.  I ran out of his office.  He keeps saying Marc raped me, and I keep saying that isn’t true, that what Marc did was not exactly that because Daddy I know that you said it wasn’t – that I wasn’t ruined.  Dr. Graves says it was rape.  He is angry with me that we won’t press charges – that I won’t make a formal complaint with the school, something on paper – he says paper trails are important when dealing with institutions.  I said I’m not dealing with anyone, and he said I’m being shortsighted and shouldn’t make any decisions yet. 

 

Nothing has been the same since the show.  I know I said I wouldn’t bring it up again, but I’m sure that I saw Marc there – in the second row.  Dr. Graves says something bad is going to happen to me while the university covers this up again.  He said it’s happened before, and this time he’s not going to be a pawn in a sick game, and neither should I. 

 

I don’t know what to do about Dr. Graves.  Sometimes he is so patient and nice.  Other times he is so demanding of me to do things his way, to talk about my body and very personal things.  To follow his advice and make a paper trail.   He says this is an evil place, and he knows more than anybody – though I should be starting to see it at this point.   He came to my show and sent gardenias to me backstage.  I told him about the bushes we had at home, and he remembered.

 

 

Why does he want to change me so much?  What is wrong with me?  It’s lunchtime and my head still feels stuffed with cotton.  Maybe that’s why this is all so confusing.  I don’t think I’m going to see him anymore.  Do you think that is okay?

 

Patty

 

 

 

PATTY GIDDIS                                                                              Inbox – iCloud 12:02 pm

 

Marc just called here

 

To: Mgiddis@aol.com

 

Marc just called here.  Just now.  Joella answered the phone.  Didn’t know who he was, but she woke me and said she had a bad feeling inside.  It was him, Daddy.  He said, “I want you to know that I know what we did was wrong.”  I didn’t do anything, Daddy, except go to sleep in a sleeping bag and wake up being choked and hurt by this man.  He told me that he very much wanted to see me, that he knew I lived in Meredith Hall, but we didn’t have to meet there; we could go to dinner and talk.  I could hardly speak I was shaking so much.  All I could say was “Never call me again.”  Joella had to take the phone away from me and hang it up.  What am I going to do Daddy?  How did he get my phone number?” 

 

 

 

PATTY GIDDIS                                                                         Inbox- iCloud 2:24 am

 

I did what you said.

 

To:  Mgiddis@aol.com

 

I went to the Bishop and told him what happened.  Told him about the show and how I was sure Marc was there, too.  And now he has my phone number?  I asked him what was going on?  What are they going to do?

 

The bishop told me he gave Marc my phone number — that Marc is very sorry and that the Bishop only wanted to help me, that he and Marc’s bishop thought it was  a good idea.  He said Marc had come in and admitted everything to his bishop, said he was overcome and could not control himself, but he’s willing to do whatever it takes to make amends.  They think he is a good man who made a mistake.

 

I had the dream again about his arms, the one choking me while the other – I can’t talk to you about this, Daddy.  I’m thinking about going to go back to Dr. Graves.  I need a refill of this medication — only way I’m going to sleep.  I’ll go crazy stay awake another night.

 

 

 

PATTY GIDDIS                                                                                        Inbox- iCloud 3:04 pm

 

I didn’t go.

 

To:  Mgiddis@aol.com

 

 

I did what you said and tried to pray but it just doesn’t work for me like it works for you.  Roger called me last night and said I need to get out of this place, that nothing is ever going to get better while I’m here.  I know you said, Dad, but when he said it just then, it sounded exactly right. 

 

School isn’t going well.  I’m failing French.  I don’t go to a lot of my classes because when I finally fall asleep I can’t make myself wake up.  I don’t know how staying here could ever work out.

 

 

 

PATTY GIDDIS                                                                       Inbox-iCloud 12:12 am

 

You would never believe who was just here.

 

To:  Mgiddis@aol.com

 

 

I know you wouldn’t like it, but it was Dr. Graves.  He’s allowed to be in the girl’s dorms because he’s a doctor, so please don’t be too upset.  I didn’t tell you that he has been calling me.  Joella gave me a couple of his messages since I stopped going to counseling.  He just said he was terribly worried and saw I renewed my prescription though I hadn’t been coming in. 

 

Got kind of nervous when he said that as a doctor he has full access to all my medical history with the university clinic and that Elavil is a powerful medication to be on without any kind of guidance.  I guess it makes sense.  It was still a surprise he came but I guess it just shows he cares.

 

We talked for a long time, and he told me he was sorry if he had pushed me too hard in his office the other day.  I told him that it was very important to me that I was still a virgin – I know it’s important to you.  And I was because Marc had not done that with me.  Dr. Graves agreed.

 

We went for a walk and then sat on a bench under the stars.  It was the most beautiful experience I’ve had in Utah.  I told him so many things – much more than I was able to in that bright office.  He is much more of a friend than a counselor.  I’m allowed to have friends, Daddy.  I need one very much.

 

I agreed to go back to counseling.  He says we don’t have to do it in the office.  We can do it in different places like this.  He walked me home and gave me my medication himself with a big glass of water and tucked me into bed.  It was the safest I’ve felt in a long time. 

 

Joella is being weird about it.  Says it was creepy, but it was the best night I’ve had since I came to this school.  I felt like I was home again.

 

After he left, I got up to write you this letter before this pill knocks me out.  I just wanted you to know things are looking up.  Maybe I can make it here after all.

 

Patty

 

 

 

PATTY GIDDIS                                                                                       Inbox – iCloud 11:12 am

 

I’m sorry that you cannot be happy for me when I’m making such progress.

 

To: Mgiddis@aol.com

 

It really makes me sad inside to know it’s only when I’m in the depths of depression that you and I can be close. I will not turn Alan (Dr. Graves) away because he cares about me.  It is nice to have that here.  It’s nice to have that.

 

 

 

PATTY GIDDIS                                                                         Inbox – iCloud 12:51 pm

 

Alan is saving my life.

 

To: Mgiddis@aol.com

 

I’m writing to you because the end of the semester is coming, and what I’ve been trying to tell you is that I’m failing, not only French but my dance classes as well.  There’s nothing to worry about that.  The important thing, as Alan says, is I am using this time to get well.  He’s saving my life.  I don’t have to tell you that before he came along, I couldn’t even eat or sleep much less live a real life – with any kind of pleasure. 

 

I know all you’re worried about is the grades, and it just shows how messed up your priorities — your whole worldview is – like everyone here.   I did what Alan said finally and made a complaint, and he’s helped me find a lawyer.  Not a criminal one — nothing is going to be in the newspapers or anything like that.  He’s going to – I’m going to sue the university for their oversight and cover-up of my assault. He knows a lot of insider information about how this happened here before – they have lied to the FBI and Alan has proof.  They school is going to have to settle out of court to keep him quiet.  Alan says they are going to have to let me withdraw out of my classes due to the psychological trauma they have created. 

 

He’s helped them cover it up before because they blackmailed him and threatened him about some of his practices – which of course, are beyond their puritanical understanding. We’re not afraid of them now though – either of us.  Alan believes, something good is going to come from this – for both of us and for a lot of other people, too. 

 

Alan has been ready to leave this place for a long time.  He’s doing a lot of groundbreaking work with repressed memories, reenacting childhood traumas to desensitize people and help them move on.  I have literally been reborn – you think that is some kooky psychological speak or insane, but it’s a literal truth.  He tied me naked into blankets, covering my face, for hours until I was strong enough to be reborn.  How I cried and screamed even – but then I fought my way out and into his arms and I am his now. 

 

He is my daddy — done things to protect me you never would.  I won’t be coming home over the break.  I’m very small now and cannot travel alone. 

 

 

 

 

PATTY GIDDIS                                                                                       Inbox – iCloud 2:24 pm

 

Do not bother Joella with your phone calls at the dorm anymore.

 

Time:  3:24

 

You are harassing other people now, and you need to stop.  I don’t live at the dorms anymore.  How could I live inside an institution I’m suing? That makes no sense.  It’s all for the best.  I never would have come here except it was your fantasy school.  I’m not Mormon or a good girl or a virgin anymore.  It’s not a place for me. 

 

Alan and I have spent endless hours talking about my childhood.  He knows what you’ve done to me – the other me, when I was yours to break, before I was reborn and in gentle hands.  None of your threats about pressing charges against Alan have any validity.  He doesn’t need a license anymore.  He’s not a practicing psychologist.  He’s creating his own spiritual retreat where he will not be constrained in his methodologies and he can help lots of people like me.  We have freedom of religion in this country, as you well know.

 

You, however, should think twice about threatening me when there is no criminal statute of limitations on sex abuse of children under the age of 16  – much less the age of five.  I used to be the kind of girl who wouldn’t press charges but I’m afraid if you persist you will understand how true it is that I am reborn. 

 

This is the last email you’ll receive from me.  This is the email address of a dead girl.  Alan doesn’t want me to open it anymore and be exposed to your poison ever again.  You sent a ghost to this place of a girl you killed, and Alan resurrected something else.  Leave us alone.  It’s naptime now.  I must go.

 

Penelope Graves

 

 


2 sonnets by Kristin Garth

Kristin Garth, Poetry

Voltaic 

Cut out a diamond of charcoal toile. 

Sacrifice black ribbons from your own hair.

Hand stitch satin lengths of tail.  The squall 

against sash windows announces it’s prepared

to share its primordial sparks.  Heavens, 

mutating black and blue, even rumble 

while you dare pause before a mirror, question 

appearance one last time in lieu of being humble 

on nights, electric and divine.  The bolt 

will trickle down the silver twine you wound 

yesterday with care.  If you deserve its jolts,

they will find you everywhere.  Crown 

of twinkling gigajoules, luminescent teeth,

at last voltaic as what you survived beneath. 


Survival 

Her toes are dangling off a stone fence post 

encircling the sinkhole that swallows  

parents, reposed, bottom half of their house, close 

to all of their yard.  Rainstorm which follows

fills her hollow along with the boulevard 

abutting the hovel with precipitation

until the alligators arrive.  She stands guard,

mewling kitten in hand, shrewd calculations

made to survive.  A free hand unbuttons 

the black cotton dress that hid the shame 

of a belly she could not express when 

the world was unbroken, she was to blame.

She quiets the kitten with milk at her chest.

First problem solved in a new world she loves. 

Twinkles – a short story by Kristin Garth

Kristin Garth, Short Stories

By eleven, the Leonard twins were a regular spectacle at Twinkles Skateland. Aunt Ina had struggled to raise them, since the age of six, after their parents murder/suicide.  Ina was an Olympic figure skating enthusiast exposing her blonde nieces to endless televised performances of the great pairs.  Ina’s favorites were Gordiva and Grinkov while the twins were obsessed, for obvious reasons, with the Carruthers siblings.  It wasn’t a stretch for Kiera and Kaci, who not only looked identical, tween twin Barbies, but also did everything together, to imagine skating together, too — though Aunt Ina explained early same sex siblings were not permitted to compete in these events.

None of this performance fantasy, of the girls, was connected to any reality or literality.  They could have never learned ice skating in their small southern town where it never snowed and no ice rinks existed.  Aunt Ina could not have afforded such fancy lessons even it had.  She could barely feed her charges and save  gas money to chauffeur them around in her peeling Dodge Caliber.  But she managed somehow, scoping out all the free activities that Florosa had to offer its youth, squirreling away dollars from her shifts at Target. 

The most popular of these activities she found to distract her tragic twins from their poor run of luck in life was the free skate at Twinkles Skateland.  On Tuesdays and Fridays and Sundays, for specific three hour slots,  under-12 kids skated free.  The rental of skates was $5 per child which was still cost prohibitive for Ina, but when she told the girls they would have to first save up the $30 to buy their own skates they both managed to find odd jobs in the trailer park to accomplish this task within a week

Their first skates were a classic white boot with pink toe stops and wheel bearings.  These  instantly became Kiera and Kaci’s mutual favorite possessions.  The twins coordinated their thrifted wardrobe to match the skates and to create a cohesion they mirrored in their synchronized routines at Twinkles.  The girls practiced endlessly gaining speed and acumen, stealing the simpler choreography from videotapes of ice skating legends.  The effect of all this combined with the twins’ doubly blessed genetics created a show that stopped even the speed  skaters in their tracks.  By the time the twins were 14, the  DJ began featuring the girls each night with a motley mix of “Fade Into You” by Mazzy Star, to highlight their grace,  merged a little jarringly with  “It Takes Two” as the girls exited

 to the delight of a mesmerized rink.

A little slow on the uptake that the twins had become entertainers at the roller rink (Ina enjoyed dropping the girls off and getting household chores done while they were so thoroughly occupied), their aunt caught on when 15 year old Kiera finally broke the news — they’d been asked to shoot a commercial. 

“They want to pay us $100 — each.”

Aunt Ina was no businesswoman, but she had impeccable common sense.  Twinkles was a chain of roller skating rinks.  Her nieces had endured an abysmal childhood — Ina knew only ended with the murder/suicide not started there.  Her brother was always a brute — even to her as a child.  She could only imagine what these young girls had suffered at his demented hands.  The girls never spoke of it — though they held in most things except, Ina imagined, with each other.   Whether it was a twin or a trauma bond, Ina couldn’t totally say.  Though Kiera served as the spokesperson of the two, always filling the air with a chatter of inconsequential information, it was clear there was always much about the girls’ lives Ina would never know. 

Her nieces were stunning squared.  Ina knew the most certain way out of their violent past and bleak present was to capitalize on that.   Stopping the car so she could study their inscrutable faces, she demanded to know everything they had been doing at the skating center each night. 

It was Kiera, of course, who confessed to the skate shows; Ina sighed.

“It’s how we’ve been going without paying since we aged out, Ina.  Please, you have to let us do it.  We’ll be skating on TV.”

“Oh, you’re gonna do it all right but not for $200.  Ina’s gonna sort it out.”

Sort it out Ina did.  She negotiated $1000 each for the girl’s commercial appearance as well as free pink princess skates with rainbow ribbons that the rink sold and matching pink outfits for the girls performances (two rhinestoned figure skating style outfits each and three pairs of matching shorts and tees and long socks with pink stripes).  They were Twinkle royalty now thanks to Ina. All she asked was that they never leave her out of the loop of their shared lives again when she could be so beneficial to them.  Kiera nodded and bounced her submission, but Ina wasn’t naïve enough to trust it. 

While Kiera certainly appreciated her aunt’s managerial skills.  Some Twinkles secrets, she understood, Ina could never know — like Kenny.  Kenny Stroyer became the new DJ at Twinkles two months after the twins turned 17  (celebrated at the rink with a 1700 pink balloons and a special pink light show.)  Kenny was 23, had a girlfriend who was active duty in the Navy, transferred from San Diego to Pensacola where he was forced to start over accumulating DJ gigs in a smaller town.   He’d only taken the skating rink job to get to know people when he’d arrived and was desperate to level up  the moment he walked in the Twinkles neon rainbow doors. Kiera had learned all of this in her many chats with Kenny while slipping ICEEs, sat on his work table inbetween the shows with her sister.

Kaci learned everything she knew about Kenny Stroyer through her sister.  Kaci learned most things in life this way.  Kaci felt, as long as she could remember, inherently inept at interactions while Kiera seemed gifted at the same skill. 

Kaci’s memories were rather limited to the time they’d come to Ina’s at six.  Before that time, memories were Polaroids of fragments of a crime scene that mutated and changed from tortures upon small bodies, still aching in the strangest places, to visions of actual blood and murder that made her sick to her stomach.  The Polaroid revelations were blessedly infrequently revealed — all shards of a mirror whose only purpose now was destruction of its intended beholder.   Kaci always feared if she began talking though – even casually, that these truths would all spill out from her, like the vomit that came with the worst of the Polaroids.  The disgusting truth of her insides would spill out, the ones took so much trouble to hide.

Nothing good came of talking or looking to the past, so Kaci closed her cherry glitter glossed lips and focused on the practiced perfection of the ice-skating routines, mimicking the choreography of innocence and beauty. Work made a magic of limbs that transcended the liminality of a lost adolescence.

Kiera was only eight minutes older than her sibling but the difference between the two socially felt like decades.  Kiera never knew a stranger or an obstacle she could not manipulate. Where Kaci clung to Ina and to Kiera, Kiera clung to anyone who she saw as a step away from the past.   At Twinkles, this person became Kenny.

Kaci could see it happening and guessed at its conclusion months before the girls were 18 and the inevitable coup de grace occurred.  Every time Kaci saw Kenny and Kiera in the booth, as the date  of their adulthood approached, Kiera was scooted closer, and their two heads tangled in whispers, Kiera’s long blonde locks covered Kenny’s.  In their double bed in the trailer, Kaci listened to Kiera’s side of the late night talks with Kenny that became part of their nightly routine. 

“You made that much on the dayshift?”

Kenny had been picking up open dayshifts at Sirens, a strip club, and had confided in Kiera, who’d filled in Kaci, that the dayshift DJ was completely unreliable (cocaine) and on  his way out.  The management had already asked Kenny if he could take over full-time within the next few weeks. 

As Kaci had guessed before Kiera broke the news, Kenny had broken up with his military girlfriend weeks ago.  He’d had enough cash squirreled away from his strip clubs shifts to get into a new place. Now she heard Kiera doing the mathematics of topless dancing in her head, Kaci knew what was coming.  They were both 18 in just weeks.  She didn’t exactly want to be a topless dancer; it was not a thing she’d ever imagined herself doing   Yet she knew she would follow where Kiera led.

It’s what she had always done.  No one else could understand what they had been through.  When Kiera held Kaci in the double bed, she did so knowing all the heinous secrets Kaci held tight in her throat. 

“How long do you think we can keep rollerskating for a living?  And what has it gotten us – rhinestoned outfits we hang on a curtain rod in a trailer?  It’s just choreography and a lot more money.  Kenny says it’s a classy place.  There’s nobody like us.  We’d kill.”

Kaci nodded.  There was no argument she could make.  Life was just a countdown until this new chapter with her sister began.  It certainly couldn’t be the worst chapter  — not even in the same book.

They turned 18 on a Monday but waited until Wednesday to make their move out of Ina’s.  Their aunt was doing a double shift at Target, and it gave the girls a chance to move all their meager possessions into Kenny’s new apartment in Pensacola across from the mall. 

Kiera moved into the bedroom with Kenny leaving Kaci, for the first time in her life, with her very own bedroom.   It was the first event in their emancipation from Ina  that Kaci had not expected.  It should have felt like a luxury, decorating one’s own room and stretching out under the covers as far as one’s limbs desired.  Instead it  felt lonely in a way that Kaci could not have anticipated.  Sharing a room had never been a choice.  Poverty had forced the girls together their entire lives, but it was all Kaci knew and being without it introduced a new pain to a girl who thought she had experienced all of them.  It was a shameful childish feeling Kaci could never confess just quietly cried herself to sleep the first week on the new premises.

There were other new experiences, and they were not all unpleasant.  Working at the strip club was surprisingly similar to working at the rink.  She followed choreography with her sister, a lot of the arms were the same.  Stilettos felt like roller skates in moments in the muscle memory of her legs.  A mistake would land one on the ground to the same kind of casual ridicule that could happen at the rink.  It happened to other dances there, but Kaci and Kiera never fell. 

Men had always worshipped the girls, even in their adolescence, at the rink.  Of course, most of them had contained their inappropriate feelings but the twins still read them in their long gazes.  It was the same gazes at the club; the  girls just offered more to it now.  One of the many secrets, Kaci’s cherry gloss lips kept now was that she enjoyed taking her top off for the men.  It made them quiet like her.  Speechless.  Their gaze became sad and desperate and worshipful.  Men were much more attractive like this.  Every other moment they reminded her of her father, and so she kept her distance. If they could always behave like this, she might not.  She finally understood her sister’s need to be naked with them.  When they were like this, it felt safe.

The girls worked nightshift and Kenny worked dayshift, which meant that he wasn’t around the apartment a lot while the twins were awake.  Kaci enjoyed this – the two sisters having the place to themselves.   It meant that their sleep schedule was different, too, and after a few weeks, something miraculous happened.  Kiera started sleeping with Kaci again.

“He wakes me up when he gets up so early, and it’s fucking killing me, dude.  Like Jesus Christ, I can’t have bags under my eyes – I’m the breadwinner here.”

We, Kaci thought, but characteristically kept it inside.  They’d be leaving this place soon.  Kenny, still a humble dayshift DJ, had outgrown his usefulness.  Kaci wondered if he’d learned his sister enough to know it, too, or would he be stunned like Ina when he came home one day to an empty apartment.

The girls were both asleep after sunrise when Kaci learned the answer.   It couldn’t have been more than three hours — nightshift ending at 3 am, post their regular Waffle House hash brown stop  and alternating  showers, it was always 4:30 by the time their heads got pillows. 

Kenny’s door, as usual, had been shut when the twins arrived, and the apartment was quiet.  Kaci assumed he was sleeping like usual — though each day, much like her sister apparently, she considered him less and less.  Only when Kaci felt the vibration of the bed did she remember Kenny.  For a second, remembering that she had, as she always did, lock the door to her bedroom, she  hoped  it was some PTSD of her childhood . 

Then she heard his wince and the whispered, “Motherfucker, and she knew that Kenny was really here, had pried open the door and was climbing into the bed.

Kaci smelled the liquor on his breath now as he carelessly flung himself between the two girls.  Kiera turning away from him even in his sleep.  Then he touched Kaci’s bare thigh — like it was just another limb of her sister, a limb he clearly thought he possessed though he never had — and certainly did not now.

Kaci knew there was no one to speak for her now.  She would have to do it herself.

“Kenny, stop it.  It’s me, Kaci.”

He’d laughed but the laughter was pointed and aggressive like his movements in the bed.   

“She speaks at last.  To what do I owe this pleasure?”

His face was almost touching Kaci’s in the dark.  She could almost taste the alcohol on his his breath.   The old, awful Polaroids of her childhood flashed inside her head — of nights like this with a man in her bed who didn’t care she wasn’t her mother.  She would just do.  The last was stillness and sadness and blood and then a darkness like a hole that her body floated into as she heard a scream that came from outside her body.

Was it Kiera’s scream or her own?  Kaci didn’t know.  By the time she woke, she was in her sister’s arms.  Kenny was off the bed as Kiera screamed at him.

“Get out.  You never touch her, you freak.  Get out of here.”

“This is my apartment, remember?   Mine before you ruined my life, you little bitch. You owe me — both of you owe me.”

Kenny’s face was red with rage and his body lunged at the bed as he spoke.  Kaci trembled in her sister’s arms terrified at what would happen next — until she heard her sister’s response.

“You expect two incest survivors to have incest with you?  Is that it?  What we owe you?”

Kenny was quiet.  Kaci was shocked to hear the words spoken so matter of fact and plain.  The girls had never spoken of it themselves though Kaci expected that was the privilege of a shared life, there was much that didn’t need to be spoken because it was a mutual experience.  She supposed this night would be another of such things.

“We’ll be out of here by the time you are back from work — that is if you want to continue working at the strip club.  I wonder what’s harder to replace there a dayshift DJ or two stripping twins..  Shall we find out or you wanna go to your room and leave us to our peace while we pack?”

Kenny’s stood staring at the girls an instant, his face sunken at the realization that in addition to losing Kiera, he was in danger of losing his job.  Certainly, she was right.  The girls were the most popular act at the club.  There was no doubt who management would choose.  

He walked out of the room.  Kaci took a deep breath as she heard his door shut.

“Goddamnit, so much for sleep.  Let’s get packed and I’ll call Roger at noon when he’s closer to awake and get him to pick us up.”

Roger was the night shift DJ and already Kiera’s new good friend. 

Kaci looked at Kiera.  Her squinting eyes and wrinkling forehead pronouncing all the doubt her lips dared not.

“Stop it.  We can’t afford Botox yet.  We aren’t staying with him.  We just need a car to go so see some places and somewhere to lock up our stuff. How much cash you got?”

“5,000?  Maybe a little more.”

“Fuck Roger.  Let’s call a taxi and get a hotel, a newspaper and find us a place.”

Kaci bounced and nodded and hugged her sister.  She didn’t say another word but as she hurriedly packed for what she considered her first real second chance at life, her blue eyes were full of twinkles.


Kristin Garth is a Pushcart, Rhysling nominated sonneteer and a Best of the Net 2020 finalist, the author of a short story collection You Don’t Want This ( Pink Plastic Press), The Stakes (Really Serious Literature) and many more books.

FAKE BARBIE HEIRESS BY KRISTIN GARTH

Kristin Garth, Poetry

Fake Barbie heiress has no stock in Mattel,
faux Handler trust fund unverifiable by
Citibank so her loan could prevail.
Uses a YSL concealer to brighten
stressed eyes, Chanel Pink Fantasy tweed
so lawyers sympathize . Good ideas shod
in fraudulently purchased Jimmy
Choos sound better to bankers. Pastel facade
accessorizes an ancestry of graft,
indictments, falsified documents filed
with a steel finished handcuffed aftermath
for its creator Ruth, dollmaker exiled
from her dreamhouse company. Beats
Fake Barbie Heiress as first courtroom Barbie.

Author’s Note:

I was inspired by Inventing Anna, the Netflix documentary about the fake German Heiress Anna Sorokin who went to jail for fraud. Though it would be funny to make her a Fake Barbie Heiress — only when I was researching Ruth Handler the creator of Barbie did I learn that Ruth herself was convicted of fraud and removed from Mattel for falsifying financials, much like Anna Sorokin.



Kristin Garth is a Pushcart, Rhysling nominated sonneteer and a Best of the Net finalist. Her sonnets have stalked journals like Glass, Yes, Five:2:One, Luna Luna and more. She is the author of many books of poetry including The Stakes (Really Serious Literature) and a short story collection You Don’t Want This. She is the founder of Pink Plastic House a tiny journal and co-founder of Performance Anxiety, an online poetry reading series. Follow her on Twitter: (@lolaandjolie) and her website kristingarth.com

Dispossessed by Kristin Garth

Flash Fiction, Kristin Garth

POWDER BLUE

Powder blue velvet ribbon he loops gracefully about your nape.  Grazes virgin skin perpetually hidden by the lush brunette tufts he has brushed to the side.  Nothing is rushed.  Same strange fingers he plies you have observed for years wrapped about an axe.  Peered

curiously through branches after midsummer naps of your adolescence, adrift from your  bed.  Beyond the boundaries of your father’s dominion, you, often, are led to this log cabin abutting the property lines. 

You are thirteen the first time you spy the smoke from its chimney amidst the dense long leaf pines.  Tiptoe one day, like prey, wide eyed, to what you might find.  Comfort and innocence you leave behind, with your mind, all ideas of who you will be.  You stumble on sticks, caressed by a beneficent breeze until you see it, at last, set against a sky, powder blue — the chimney of smoke, a log cabin, too, and a man, ax in his hand, which swings, indifferent to you, towards a ring of dead tree deftly split in two.

Raven hair roughed up by air of his potent swing, the pink of one cheek, in profile, glistening as he works, oblivious to you.  Wait helpless there, a fawn in the dew until he is finished and walks straight away. Not even quite certain he sees you that day.  He puts down his axe, without pause, and withdraws to a front door he will, unceremoniously, close.   How many nights you wake up in sweaty smocked rose bedclothes.

You wander back towards this cabin for years.  Last time you watch from a distance, eyes brimming with tears, after a marriage proposal that would take you away from your father’s grand home, this secret place where you stray. 

Today he takes notice.  Looks you in the eye.  Your flesh is immovable save tremors that trail up your thighs to that place you disgrace yourself, closed eyes, in bed since you were led to his cabin to wait.  Spread yourself wide in the dark.  Steal from your father’s kitchen a serrated blade to trace places you would offer to a woodsman, when bade – a marked succubus inside the untouched form of the seraphim. 

After he makes a study of your dark eyes, he will turn away towards his cabin as he has eons of yesterdays.  Heart aches even more, ignored, than it did, unnoticed, before until you realize he has left it wide open, his log cabin door.  Legs follow without hesitation, clumsy on stairs.  He demands removal of clothes right then and there.  Brushes your hair.  Loops the powder blue velvet ribbon against the nape of your neck, ties it, high, in a bow.  Lays you back on a table, spread wide, to inspect a guilt he will nurture in his humble chateau – marked by his hand with a powder blue bow.

DOLLHOUSE

There are paintings of dolls over some of his walls, powder blue bows, entreating eyeballs.  Wide, pleading irises in complimentary hues stare at their new sister he has brought them in you.  On the far side of the room, he reaches for a switch from a collection of intimidating accouterments— paddles of wood carved by his skill hand. Whips and ropes on hooks you will wail from, be expected to withstand.  He leans over to hold you then growls in your ear.  “If you stay I will hurt you, but I will not keep you here.”

You try to respond with a nod, but he says you must speak.  Manage, “Yes, sir,” as he tastes a tear from your cheek.  Tells you to turn over – his switch tickling your thighs.  Hold onto the table; squeeze shut your eyes, but your ears still hear his swing in the air before your ass feels the strike.  The howl you make is your original animal fright though somehow you stay quite still for three strikes more. 

The body betrays when he gets to four, constricts your limbs.  Becomes as miniscule as it can.  He coaxes it open with magnanimous hands.  Fingers in furrows make you forget anything not powder blue, the sting of his punishment, your purported virtue.  Hear yourself begging for things you don’t know.   He whispers in your small ear while he strokes you slow.  “I can’t cum inside you until I have one more blow.”

He pulls out sodden fingers to cover your mouth. Red tremulous flesh you trade for pleasures you can no longer breathe without.  He offers no mercy with this last bow.  It cuts your spirit in two, but both of you know it is worth it when he pushes inside.  Moan into his chest as a new pain sanctifies each hole which he enters as you suffer true. 

To think you once paraded in kitten heeled shoes before boys who would breed you when daddy will choose. Felt a silent power gestating inside you each one you peruse, deny the upturn corners of lips you would not smile or part — glowering with pride.  Yet for this stranger you would tear them apart if he would be satisfied.  Split the tight corners of a stunted child’s smile, you should have long since outgrown becoming fertile.  Widen it hopelessly around his vicious cock, your hair in his hands, down your throat a shock of something unexpected that makes you shudder and choke. 

He carries you after to a plush rug by the fire.  Your eyes strain to stay open while he retires to his chair to smoke, speak of demons who float in the powder blue air, beasts he fought in this forest while you nod off somewhere to your first ever peace – released by his hand.

When you wake, he will bathe you and dress you for return, to avoid your father’s reprimand, in a once favorite frock for which, now, you care not the least.   Only the powder blue velvet ribbon he straightens brings any relief.  “Wear it as long as you belong to me.”

“May I come tomorrow?  I will find a way.”

He says in a powder blue velvet ribbon you can come everyday. 

TEA PARTY

Wake the next morning in a canopy bed, same curtained monstrosity where you have laid your head each naive night of your Lilliputian life, hidden in orgiastic dreams until you become wife.  It seems, now, only a prison of satin and lace scratching your welts, holding you in place.  The only comfort here is the bow, powder blue, on the top of your head, slightly askew from tortured sleep in your childhood bed — the girl it once belonged to only yesterday dead.

Your immodest corpse foregoes a petticoat, settles upon a pastel red dress, easy to unbutton, flesh to express – you aspire always to be a considerate guest.  Make hurried excuses to the staff on the stairs.  Scurry to the woods before father’s aware.  Run through the forest, your skirt balled up in each hand. 

When you reach his cabin, there is no sign of the man.  Still unbutton your dress as soon as your spy the open door.  Strip on the porch.  Throw clothes on the floor. Hurry towards the fire where he sits, near, in his tufted gentleman’s chair.  He smiles as you realize he is not alone there.

The clink of a teacup alerts you to her violet stare.  Fingertips attempt to cover pert nipples,

the pubic hair no other human but the stranger has seen.  Before you realize your error, you hear in your ear, mean, the order for you to drop your hands. 

“You can leave right now. If you stay, understand, anyone here is our invited guest.”

He squeezes your neck.  You move your trembling head yes.

“You’ve come just in time to serve us more tea.”

You refill each cup conscientiously — first the stranger’s, then his violet-eyed company.  Her strokes of your welts on your ass are an anodyne.  Tells you to put down the teapot.  Turn off your mind.  Lean over the settee.  Do it as quick as you can and as stoically.  Your head to one side, angled to him.  Feel her cool lips tracing your well-wounded skin, then a wet tongue disappearing into a place that makes you whimper and writhe.  Her fingers he tastes.  She turns you over and opens you wide while he scoots closer to see. 

“Make her beg you for more.”

She makes you crawl on the ground and into a small saucer pours you some tea with a dollop of cream.  

“Lick it up like a kitty and we will make you scream.”

Breathless and restless for what will be done, you lap it gracelessly down with a desperate pink tongue.  Then the mistress beseeches, rubbing circles with her fingertips.  Crawl quickly towards her though midway you slip.  Hear both their lewd laughter that makes you blush. 

“Do not scare her, Paul.  She’s feeling the rush.”

Though it’s hard to move, you reach the sanctuary of her spread lap.  Could crawl on top, curl up for a nap, but she pushes your goosebumped form low on his parquet floor.  By the nape of your neck, she trains you, slow, to adore her with your small kitten mouth — tongue deep in her holes until she is prone on the couch.  No longer the mentor but only maiden who moans. 

The commands you receive now come from the master alone – a drone of demands in a deep baritone that quiver your bones even when they grow faint.  When he covers your eyes, you risk no complaint – a fabric in pitch through which you can’t see.  He lifts you from the floor almost reverently. Plants a kiss on your forehead as he carries you, like a bride, to the sunshine outside.  Heat on your skin makes you wetter inside.

Beneath the blindfold the world rocks to and fro.  Lays you down upon flannel and enters you slow near the pink muhly grass that tickles your flailing toe — the sounds of your pleasure echoing surrounding sparrows.  Fingers push into your mouth, more clutch at your breasts.  Gasp at the knowledge there are too many hands and a chorus of breaths.  He removes the blindfold so you can see how many strangers have come to his licentious party. Through the tea party haze, at first it seems a half dozen — those it is only three, two women, one men, all touching and tasting what the master has brought.

He strokes your powder blue bow, absent all thoughts, while he cums on your chest, a treat quickly devoured by his most rapacious guests who take their time and their pleasure with the master’s new toy.  Stay until dusk, exhausted with joy your privileged life never offered before.  Delay, as long as you may, your return to your father’s door.  But the master says you must — if you might come again. 

As he helps you into your dress, you stroke the powder blue ribbon.  You walk arm in arm to the edge of woods while he redefines, for you, the meaning of “good.”  Watches while you walk the rest of the way dressed like the unhappy girl you were only yesterday.  Sneak in a back door hoping no one will see how late you have been gone, how much you changed, the new powder blue bow, always so meticulously arranged. 

Run into your father on the way up the stairs. 

“Will you not join us for dinner?”

You cannot meet his inquisitive stare.

“Not feeling well I’m afraid.  Better just sleep.” 

Hurry past him towards your room to hide in carnation pink sheets.  Touch every used part .  Count each rabid heartbeat until blood moonbeams deliver your enslaved spirit to him in his log cabin again.  Even your unconscious young mind waits in attendance to service his feral whims.

ASH

You wake the next morning to the odor of smoke from a dream in which a Burmese python inched its pale yellow girth down your widening throat — not at all where you hoped to be led prone and hypnotic in your canopy bed.  Dread so real you shudder, until, by curiosity, you are lead toward the scent and descent of a thin trail of smoke to the open window.  Surely noon by the breadth of the sunbeams followed.  Is it any wonder you slept late after yesterday’s extremes? Pull on a quilted mint cloak to find out what the smoldering means.  

As you walk to the window, your skeleton shakes though its openings tingle with promise of a season of enchanting new aches.  Pull the powder blue ribbon to make sure it lies straight. Look towards the woods where you cannot wait to be.  See a dark cloud above that makes your eyes overflow with a bottomless grief your brief little life never bequeathed before.  Run in only the cloak your through your father’s door all the way to the edge of the woods, promising demons you will never be good one damned day of a life, not that long, if today you could only be wrong.  But each step closer to the cabin, the smell of smolder becomes ever more strong.

Arrive to the place where the log cabin stood when you left at dusk — now some smoldering ash in a clearing of mauve-colored brush, woods where your lust was laid bare.   Some pieces of burnished rubble remain that might be the sette or the chair.   Fall to your knees wondering is he somewhere in there?  Would he burn it down with the switches, the paintings of dolls?  You gave him everything — maybe things you do not even recall through the haze of the tea you happily sipped to become finally alive.   Would he have just burned it all down?   Or did he not survive? 

Could it have been your father who recognized it in you — your eyes on the floor, the bow, powder blue?  Did he send men, maybe the would-be fiance, to burn down this peculiar joy while you slept yesterday?  

You run to the center of the smoldering dirt. Throw yourself onto embers craving something to hurt on the outside as much this loss does within — rubbing any remainders into your useless young skin.  Could it be part of him this ash you press into your pores — a piece of the switch which transformed you, one perfect day, into one of his powder blue whores? 

No more will you be — but neither a provincial girl.  Belong more to this dirt than any faux civilized world of your father who maybe murdered you here.   Scream for a sign until you see through dirty tears a glint of silver near the stump by the magnolia tree.   It is the axe he once held, the way he did you, with such authority and a silver shovel that looks like an answer to you.

Throw off the mint cloak before you begin.   Stand inside what once was the log cabin with your exposed skin the way he demanded and you would learn, so soon, to comply.   Does your skin glisten as pink as his when you watched nearby as he used the axe for years before he used you?   Dare not think of the reason you dig throughout the afternoon.   Only stop when it’s deep enough for you forever to hide.  Drop yourself in with the shovel — the accepted procedure for everything that has died.  Use it to pour enough dirt to knock you on your back.   A powder blue sky goes, for you, forever black.  But you know, one way or the other, you will remain surrounded by him.  Push the ashes and dirt of this sacred place everywhere he has been.  Open your mouth, though it hurts to breathe.  Soil and the ash are the last tortures he leaves.   Hurts more to go on outside of this cabin you grieve.   Every breath that you take contains a piece of wood he carved, the rug where he placed you, sated, once starved, to rest — in peace, for the first time.  Rather lie down in his shrine than die dispossessed.



Kristin Garth is a Pushcart, Rhysling nominated sonneteer and a Best of the Net 2020 finalist.  Her sonnets have stalked journals like Glass, Yes, Five:2:One, Luna Luna and more. She is the author of many books of poetry including The Stakes (Really Serious Literature) and a short story collection You Don’t Want This.  She is the editor of seven anthologies and the founder of Pink Plastic House a tiny journal and co-founder of Performance Anxiety, an online poetry reading series. Follow her on Twitter:  (@lolaandjolie) and her website kristingarth.com

Angel pussy by Kristin Garth

Kristin Garth, Punk Noir Magazine

for Moondog of Korine’s The Beach Bum 

is both an actual albino feline, 

the fountainhead where manchild poets

recline, vivisect viscous valentines

with mollycoddled tongues (though it’s 

been years since they were remotely young)

because they are only beautiful when 

they are inside.  They will always come 

back home to hide when the season

of hurricanes prohibits houseboats, 

well hung coxswains their steerage in

the deepest drink. With bandaged heads, they float 

towards Pabst Blue Ribbons on silver trays

to woo sugar mommas on grand Steinways. 

How To Attend The Murder Trial of a Secret Admirer With No Impulse Control Without Really Trying  by Kristin Garth  

Kristin Garth, Punk Noir Magazine

Professor recommends a murder trial.
More hours to observe the court reporting:
most likely days, even a week, his smile
ruddies geriatric cheeks, won’t be boring.

Peruse the paper. Chose a random one.
Boy your age appeals a stabbing which he
attempted to outrun, verdict he hopes undone
by evidence — traumatic brain injury,

no impulse control. Gallery, find a seat.
Defendant turns his head to smile discreet more
than once until his lawyer’s stare burns your cheek.
You have never seen his client before.

Dishwasher, waiter ex later explains,
“wanted to fuck Wednesday Addams,” your nickname.

Kristin Garth is a Pushcart, Rhysling nominated sonneteer and a Best of the Net 2020 finalist.  Her sonnets have stalked journals like Glass, Yes, Five:2:One, Luna Luna and more. She is the author of 21 books of poetry including Crow Carriage (Sweet Tooth Story Books) and The Stakes (Really Serious Literature) and the editor of seven anthologies. She is the founder of Pink Plastic House a tiny journal and co-founder of Performance Anxiety, an online poetry reading series. Follow her on Twitter:  (@lolaandjolie) and her website kristingarth.com

1 Nancy Drew sonnet by Kristin Garth

Kristin Garth, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine

The Mystery at Lilac Inn 

an erotic noir after a Nancy Drew Title 

Lie on your side in a lavender inn,

lachrymose, on an island off of 

Michigan.   Lilac crown bobby-pinned

to periwinkle hair, longing for love  

in mauve underwear.  A rose martini,

completely sipped, becomes smudged looking glass, 

magenta lipstick, when the sound of key 

card, stroke of strange fingertips on lace trimmed ass

amidst a June solar eclipse exhibits 

its lilac lady with veiled reverence. Face

to the window, stars draped in toile chintz, 

one cheek aflame on a silk pillowcase,

warm lips on your spine do their best to resolve 

the mystery of you a tongue might solve. 

Kristin Garth is a Pushcart, Rhysling nominated sonneteer and a Best of the Net 2020 finalist.  Her sonnets have stalked journals like Glass, Yes, Five:2:One, Luna Luna and more. She is the author of 20 books of poetry including Candy Cigarette Womanchild Noir (Hedgehog Poetry Press), Flutter Southern Gothic Fever Dream (TwistiT Press), and Girlarium (Fahmidan Journal).  She is the founder of Pink Plastic House a tiny journal and co-founder of Performance Anxiety, an online poetry reading series. Follow her on Twitter:  (@lolaandjolie) and her website kristingarth.com

2 Nancy Drewesque noir sonnets by Kristin Garth

Kristin Garth, Poetry

The Hidden Staircase 

after Nancy Drew, Number Two, in which 

Nancy Drew investigates in tunnels and

 hidden staircases and I investigate

the hidden staircase to peace of mind

one descends in meditation and

introspection

A hidden staircase wraps about our spines

descending when the obicularis 

occuli buries eyes in flesh confines;

oblivion abducts embryonic minds.  Mist 

obscures succeeding steps.  Mirrored walls

reflect phosphorescent silhouettes which 

we understand are consequent to all

the deliquesce of desiccating witches,

withered of their wherewithal.  We sink

into ovate interiors deprived 

of macaroon exteriors, penny 

loafers, antique broach, cream crocheted knee-high

socks, unrealistic hopes for mankind

left behind investigating peace of mind. 

The Bungalow Mystery 

after Nancy Drew, Number Three, in which 

Nancy Drew investigates a fraud in a bungalow. 

In this sonnet I encounter a fraud in a bungalow. 

He wears tailored suits, says he has meetings.

In his bungalow, you crawl across his sheets 

for beatings towards a silver buckle V,

doubled over leather snaps viscously.  

He asks, after, questions, gives you advice. He 

critiques nude careers while you play nice — ten 

years your senior, respect his mystery

and age.  Swallow what is offered then 

politely disengage once you are untied 

from posts of his living room bed,

pedantic semantics in lieu of lies.  

He is ever careful with what is said

commentary on what you do to pay bills.

Does not mention his trust fund and never will. 

Kristin Garth is a Pushcart, Rhysling nominated sonneteer and a Best of the Net 2020 finalist.  Her sonnets have stalked journals like Glass, Yes, Five:2:One, Luna Luna and more. She is the author of 20 books of poetry including Candy Cigarette Womanchild Noir (Hedgehog Poetry Press), Flutter Southern Gothic Fever Dream (TwistiT Press), and Girlarium (Fahmidan Journal).  She is the founder of Pink Plastic House a tiny journal and co-founder of Performance Anxiety, an online poetry reading series. Follow her on Twitter:  (@lolaandjolie) and her website kristingarth.com

The Secret of the Old Clock by Kristin Garth

Kristin Garth, Poetry

after Nancy Drew, Number One, in which

Nancy Drew finds a will in an old clock

that gave her a vocation;

I found a will in an old house

that gave me a location.

Not the antique clock but the document 

inside, Nancy Drew must find to be a

bona fide girl detective.  For you, it went —

find papers in a house flooded by a bay,

a deceased stranger hid decades away in 

thirty two hundred square feet with secret 

rooms, architectural conceits, a sin

they went unnoticed before. Subsequent 

to searching, you adore this place more 

until all is saved by a forgotten safe.

Top once drilled open then replaced with poured 

concrete (?!?)  a sledgehammer breaks. A waif 

with a clue becomes a proprietor

of a house of words in woods evermore.

Kristin Garth is a Pushcart, Rhysling nominated sonneteer and a Best of the Net 2020 finalist.  Her sonnets have stalked journals like Glass, Yes, Five:2:One, Luna Luna and more. She is the author of 20 books of poetry including Candy Cigarette Womanchild Noir (Hedgehog Poetry Press), Flutter Southern Gothic Fever Dream (TwistiT Press), and Girlarium (Fahmidan Journal).  She is the founder of Pink Plastic House a tiny journal and co-founder of Performance Anxiety, an online poetry reading series. Follow her on Twitter:  (@lolaandjolie) and her website kristingarth.com