waking up

I know it's been a minute
and I'm not promising anything
but I feel compelled to open this little nook back up

Amber Linskey

April 16, 2010

Bullies, Beauties and Perverts in my Restaurant

So many times when I’m sitting down to write, whether it is personal fiction or scholarly essays, I find myself reflecting back to a particular episode of Comedy Central’s Strangers With Candy. In my head, Amy Sedaris’ heinously scrunched up face repeats this phrase three times: “Go With What You Know.”

Though she is speaking of falling back to her boozing, prostituting habits, I interpret it in my own useful and choose to utilize my personal experiences when putting words to print. It is because of this that I’ve chosen to go into my workplace and snap photographs of the varied and interesting people I interact with on a daily basis.

Through out this essay I will introduce a handful of those people and apply to them certain ideas and theories that have been taught to me throughout my twelve weeks of studying literature and films addressing the issue of Gender and the part it plays in and with Society.

(Amber Locke and Marvin Gosche. Line Cooks.)

Amber is a twenty-year old woman born and raised in Jacksonville. She’s self-sufficient, attends college and is generally one of the more well rounded individuals I have come to know. She doesn’t subscribe to any particular subcultures, though a majority of her closest friends frequent the small, but loud local punk rock scene. She identifies as a lesbian, but doesn’t believe it defines her. Outwardly, she chooses not to participate in the dress and adornments that typically come along with being female. In the words of sociologist Betsy Lucal: “[She] does not do femininity” (Lucal, 1999) For her, manner of dress does not make her any less female or any more male. She can typically be seen in oversized t-shirts, baggy pants and sneakers. She wears her hair in a shaggy Mohawk. She does not believe that she has to conform to any particular gender.

Therein lies the paradox.

“Doing gender” is an act that we all play based on our level of adherence to different social stereotypes of what is male or female. By not “doing gender”, Amber is still acknowledging to the world that Gender exists. Also, because Gender is a socially constructed idea, whether or not Amber chooses to participate in molding herself to become a specific thing does not matter. Society will make the mold for her. In Betsy Lucal’s article “What It Means to Be Gendered Me”, she suggests: “Even if a person does not want to do gender or would like to do a gender other than the two recognized by our society, other people will, in effect, do gender for that person by placing her or him in one and only one of the two available categories”.

In Michael Kimmel’s “Gendered Society” he suggests that homosexuality is “deeply gendered” (Kimmel, 2008). In fact, he refers to gays and lesbians as “true gender conformists.” The idea is this. Society gives gender only two choices: male or female. In homosexuality, Gay men and women are given the opportunity to subscribe to either gender, i.e. lesbians as “masculine” women and gay men as “feminine” men.

By choosing not to “do gender”, Amber is actually reinforcing Gender by playing her own nonconformist role.

Shown above are two regular customers of mine at the diner. For this paper we’ll call them ‘Carl’ and ‘Ruth’. As you can see, they are in their Sunday’s finest. It’s later in the morning and they’ve just come from church. This couple frequents the diner counter every Sunday and every Sunday they order the same thing. I am quite interactive with my customers and tend to learn a lot about their personal lives. These two have been happily married for thirty years. They are admittedly very Christian and quick to lend biblical words of wisdom. You could generally say they are a happy, wholesome couple.

I had not intended to use them in my essay, and was simply snapping photos of some of my favorite customers. The day after this photograph was taken, I found myself wandering around the spray paint section of a Home Depot when a voice grabbed my attention:

“HHHeeyy Sexy!” It was Carl in his neon orange Home Depot apron. Despite never having greeted me with physical contact (though we’ve greeted each other no less than one hundred times in the three years I’ve been employed at the diner), he threw his arms out wide and I felt obligated to hug him. What proceeded was one of those pathetic, too tight; breast-mashing-to-chest embraces that middle aged men feel they’re entitled to give to young women.

It became very aware to me that ‘Carl’ would never behave like this if his wife were around. A light bulb went off in my head. I was instantly aware of a section I’d read in Michael Kimmel & Michael Messner’s book “Men’s Lives.”

This article, written by Martha McCaughey, speaks of “Caveman Masculinity,” an evolutionary theory that “our human male ancestors were in constant competition with one another for sexual access to fertile women (McCaughey, 2008).” Now, Carl wasn’t fighting his fellow Home Depot employees for a shot at me, but he was further acting out the theories of biological evolution laid out in Kimmel and Messner’s book.

For example, the authors reference an article in Men’s Magazine, September of 1999. This piece features men as Caveman and teaches them various workouts that emulate the supposed activities of a Caveman, i.e. throwing a spear, carrying a dead animal, etc. It suggests to men that they are biologically designed to do two things: survive and procreate. It goes into a Darwinian idea of survival of the fittest by suggesting that men seek out those mates who look the healthiest and most fertile. That translates to: the youngest and the bustiest.

So, according to the “sex science facts” it’s OKAY for Carl to feel like he can be churchly to me in front of his wife and grope me when she’s not around. Further quoted in Men’s Lives, “the reason men of any age continue to like young girls is that [they] were designed to keep them pregnant and dominate their fertile years by keeping them that way (McCaughey, 2008).”

The article further sticks its foot in its mouth by going on to say, “When your first wife has lost the overt signals of reproductive viability, you desire a younger woman… your genes don’t care about your wife or girlfriend or what the neighbors will say.”

While this photograph may not portray ‘Carl’ acting out the Caveman Ethos, his real life actions telltale his participation in such an evolutionary theory.

(Jacob Dunn and Josh “Butta’” Touchton in the kitchen.)

May I first begin by saying how much I love and cherish the boys of the kitchen? There are four of them. They work together, and they inhabit a shabby punk rock house on a bad side of town. They modify bicycles, make music and share everything they have. They have always been polite with me but they have the foulest mouths in the world and their logic for justifying the things they say confusing.

It first began with the word Fag.

I noticed in my first few days working with them that they threw the word around the way I use Awesome. An awesome when you get all green lights. An ironic awesome when you drop your coffee cup on the ground. For them, the word Fag meant so many different things.

From my readings of sociologist C.J. Pascoe’s “’Dude, You’re a Fag’: Adolescent Masculinity and the Fag Discourse (Pascoe, 2005)” the idea that this was a new way of thinking in America’s youth occurred to me. Pascoe spent a year and a half observing and interviewing high school students at two different schools. Over all she formally interviewed 49 students. She was young, and her dress adhered to that, and she managed to fit in and gain the trust of these kids. She found that the meaning of the word Fag had drastically changed. One of the boys in her study says: “Fag, seriously, it has nothing to do with sexual preference at all. You could just be calling somebody an idiot”. Pascoe goes on to say that in the high school world, the word fag means: “being stupid, incompetent, dancing, carting too much about clothing, being too emotional or expressing interest (sexual or platonic) in other guys”(Pascoe, 2005).

The boys of the Fox Kitchen reiterate this point. They say calling someone a Fag, does not mean that they are men having sex with other men, but instead it means they are participating in behavior that is not masculine.

Paradoxically, when walking through the kitchen you can overhear one boy telling the other “Pull your pants up, you faggot. Unless you want me to suck your dick.”

(Willie Heckt. Dishwasher and busboy.)

Look at this face? This baby face has been assisting me in turning tables at 8am every Saturday and Sunday morning for two years. This is Willie Heckt and he is the weekend busboy and weekday dishwasher in my diner. He is officially my favorite person at the Fox Restaurant. He is inevitably hung over and infrequently as well put together as the picture above. In fact, Willie has stumbled in to his weekend shifts with the occasional black eye, busted lip and road rash. This sweet boy, prone to braids in the hair and dating hippie chicks goes Tasmanian Devil when the alcohol gets into him, and that dog bites him almost every night.

What is it that makes good boys go bad?

I know that Willie was born to hippie; pagan parents because we bond over having been raised in the same environment. We weren’t just taught about peace and love, but about classism, racism, sexism, and violence. At 18, Willie knows that getting liquored up and fighting his friends is something our mothers would frown upon.

I’d even venture to say that Daytime Willie would frown as well. So, why does Willie do this? Why do men drink? In Rocco. L Capraro’s essay “Why College Men Drink: Alcohol, Adventure, and the Paradox of Masculinity” (Capraro, 2000), he suggests that men drink “because they are being men.” Drinking, as portrayed by society, is a manly venture associated with sporting events and girlie magazines.

Men drink for many reasons. Inebriation often brings a sense of confidence and recklessness that fulfills some of the stereotypes of a “hegemonic masculinity” (a set of social staples that men identify with as being ultimately masculine or manly.) Rocco’s suggests masculine gender role stress could be a culprit. It is the “stress resulting from a mans belief that he is unable to meet society’s demands of what is expected of men or the male role…”(Capraro, 2000).

Does this mean Willie has some internal issues about his validity as a man? It’s hard to say. At 5’3”, pudgy and toe-headed, Willie is not a very intimidating sight in the daylight. The surly, nighttime Willie, however, is something to be feared. Combined with the confidence of alcohol, Willie has no problem intimidating bigger, and burlier opponents. In “Athlete Aggression on the Rink and off the Ice: Athlete Violence and Aggression in Hockey and Interpersonal Relationships”, written by Authors Pappas, McKenry and Catlett, they quote Professor James Messerschmidt of Stockholm, Sweden when he says: “Alcohol cannot be separated from demonstrating masculinity as it is often used to decrease communication and increase men’s capacity to be violent” (Pappas, McKenry and Catlett, 2004). Several of the athletes interviewed in this article contended that alcohol was one of the “major factors” in episodes of violence. They refer to it as a “causal agent” that “facilitates the transition of violence from the competitive venue into everyday social interaction”.

Is it really that simple? Willie is just one man out of many, and his reasoning’s for turning to violence when intoxicated could stem from any number of psychological reasons, but according to the articles printed in Michael Messner and Michael Kimmel’s book “Men’s Lives”, men drink to hide shame and fear of not being manly enough, to share a camaraderie amongst other men (via bars, nights out, sporting events), to relieve stress from social strain, and to combat depression.

(Johnny Rhodenberry and Amber Linskey)

I’ve been living with Johnny Rhodenberry for five years. We’re getting married in the fall. I’ve been the exact same size since we met, since we began dating, since we got engaged. For some reason that I cannot fully comprehend I am altering my diet and trying to lose weight for the wedding. My first thought was: “When I walk down the aisle, I want it to be like: Va Va Voom! I want him to think: ‘damn, that’s the woman I’m gonna be with for the rest of my life!’”

But where did this thought come from?

Sure, every bride wants to be beautiful on her wedding day, but this is 2010 and couples are cohabitating before tying the knot. They’ve seen each other with morning breath and bed head. Hell, Johnny and I have suffered together through the nastiest of stomach flu’s. We know each other at our physical worst. So why am I so concerned about altering the way I’ve always been? Why do I want to change the woman that he fell in love with?

This is just one example of many of the internal issues women go through in regards to their own anxiety over beauty. This mental turmoil also causes an array of manifested physical diseases like bulimia, anorexia and depression. Not to mention financial drains like beauty products, diet pills and the big bucks given annually to cosmetic surgery. Naomi Wolf calls it the “beauty myth”, stating in Michael Kimmel’s “The Gendered Society,” that the “nearly unreachable cultural of feminine beauty ‘uses images of female beauty as a political weapon against women’s advancement” (Kimmel, 2008).

In societies where food is readily available, the ideal for beauty is that of slenderness. In countries that experience famine, plumpness is considered attractive. Historically, before countries had a McDonalds on every block and food was scarce, a thicker body was seen as a sign of health, beauty and wealth.

Women are taught over and over again that beauty and youth is desirable. They are taught that they should fear growing older and do everything in their power to slow the process, while men are esteemed for their graying hair and handsome crow’s feet.

We see this man-woman conflict again and again in movies and television. Sitcoms like Seinfeld portray portly, balding, goofy and unattractive men dating only beautiful, thin women. In movies, the average looking guy always gets with the gorgeous, leggy girl. The majority of these women on TV represent only a small minority of the bodies of real women off the screen.

When being constantly barraged with the images of tone tummies, flawless skin and lanky hair, women of all ages feel inferior and will do anything possible to achieve that ideal of beauty.

Does this mean I’m going to walk down the aisle in a corset and a pair of painful heels? Possibly. Yes, I am completely aware that beauty, like gender, is a social construct and that I play a part in the game. I know I am beautiful, and I know that my husband to be agrees. However, I have imbedded with this image of the “ideal beauty” since I was a small child, like every girl. And like every girl I’ve also been told that this is “the most important day of my life” and that it “has to be perfect.” The stress alone causes me so much pain, by way of anxiety and fear. How do we, as a society begin to change these impossible ideals and focus on the things that are really important?

Through out this I have introduced you to a few of my favorite individuals. Each of us are differ in often drastic ways, but we are still subjected to these conflicts and issues that come with the notion of Gender and the way it is played out in our Society. We can choose to adhere to these social constructs and “do gender” in a conservative, conforming way or we can be “radical” and untraditional and feel that we are “throwing gender out the window.” But, the truth is: whether we choose to recognize or ignore It, Society controls us and we, as human beings, are naturally gendered.

Capraro, Rocco L. 2000. “Why College Men Drink: Alcohol, Adventure, and the Paradox of Masculinity,” from Journal of American College Health.

Catlett, Pappas, and McKenry 2004. “Athlete Aggression on the Rink and off the Ice: Athlete Violence and Aggression in Hockey and Interpersonal Relationships,” from Men and Masculinities, Vol 6 No. 3..

Kimmel, Michael 2008. “Gendered Society,” Third Edition.

Lucal, Betsy. 1999. “What It Means to Be Gendered Me: Life on the Boundaries of A Dichotomous Gender System,” Gendery & Society.

McCaughey, Martha 2008. “Caveman Masculinity: Finding an Ethnicity in Evolutionary Science.”

Pascoe, C.J. 2008. “’Dude, You’re a Fag’: Adolescent Masculinity and The Fag Discourse,” Sexualities

Cindy McCain and All Her Monies

I lay in bed last night watching Cindy McCain's robotic speech on the Republican National Convention, and while she made her way -jerkingly- through the script cards I pondered the prettiness of her pearl necklace.

A necklace I knew was worth more than I had made in the last two years.

And then, today, I stumbled upon this Vanity Fair article letting the whole wide world know that her creamsicle orange dress from Monday Nights Introduction was worth a whopping 313,000 dollars.



Yeah. My animosity grows.

http://www.vanityfair.com/online/politics/2008/09/cindy-mccains-300000-outfit.html

You're a Cruel One, Mrs. Mac.

Mexican Drug Cartels Murder Over 100 in Less Than A Week

In seven full days the bodies of over 130 people have mysteriously popped up in various places around the country of Mexico. All violently killed, many with their limbs tied together and their heads severed.

President Felipe Calderon cracked down on the exportation of drugs across the Mexico border nearly 21 months ago, and the county has since experienced a daily barage of violence.

Civil wars have broken out amongs drug cartels and the stakes are high. With closer watch by the government, criminals are fighting one another for control of smuggling routes.

On thursday 12 decapitated bodies were found in a pile near the The Yucatan peninsula. Hours later another body was found 80 miles away.

One week ago today, Mexico counted 136 murders in 18 states. There have also been open attacks upon peoples homes. Thursday, two gunmen proke into a house in the stateo of Guerrero and killed two women, and two childred ages 8 and 12. The police who stormed the home were ambushed, and all killed.

In Tijuana on Tuesday four headless bodies turned up.

Two weeks ago, a group of hitmen killed 13 people at a family reunion in the town of Creel, also killing a 16 month old child.

More than 2,600 have died in 2008, already surpassing 2007's total drug-violence related death.

Service Industry Unites to Donate All Tips to the Obama Campaign

Monday, August 4th is Presidential Candidate Barack Obamas 47th Birthday.
In honor of this day, I am asking that all service industry workers band together and donate all of that days tips to the Obama campaign.

This is includes all manner of gratuity-related work. Everything from Waitstaff to Hairstylists, Dancers to Pedicurists. All of Us.

Together we can make a substantial donation and help to elect a man that will assist us in receiving the benefits that are so often not included in our career field. (Health Insurance!!)

Mondays are not notoriously busy days, but if we spread the word and let our customers know of our intentions we can pull together something wonderful.

Please give me your feedback, and share any ideas you may have.

ALSO, REPOST THE HELL OUT OF THIS!

Thank you,
Amber Linskey

Server donates her Holiday tips to Barack Obama

In honor of the holiday, I have decided to donate all of todays tips to the Barack Obama campaign.

I was very vocal about this, telling each of my customers of my intentions. I am positive that I lost money in the process ( North Florida Republicans run rampant), but I included this possibility as a part of my social experiment.

From 7am-12pm I collected 120 dollars in gratutity, and I have just sent my money over through the Obama website.

I feel wonderful.

Blitzkrieg Blue: Winner of the Next Shakespearre Award

http://www.writerscafe.org/contests/3129/
95 Contestants
130 Submissions
1423 Views
Created Dec 2, 2007


FUCK YEAH!




Blitzkrieg Blue by Amber Linskey

They called her Raggedy Anthem.
It wasn’t so much of a stage personality,
but a goddamn mutation of her personality.

And when it was her time: She was the Worlds Darling. There were thirteen of them as a group, and each one loved the other like a lover, like a child, like an appendage, a much used limb.

Anthem had a made a section for herself near the rear entrance of the tent. She’d roped it off with the left over cargo fabrics of war. Numbers were emblazoned in puffy, fading black ink. They were cryptic. Occasionally small patches, insignias of time spent lined the billowing walls. She draped the small room with the assistance of ropes, and buckles. This was hers. After each show the troupe converged upon her space. Tonight she held a bundle of black netting in her lap, and with the marred scar tissue device of her left hand, she pushed thin metal tubbing through the inky black holes. This was her wind down. Creation kept her sane, cooled her off, slowed her heartbeat back into that methodical, melodical rythmn it so relied upon. Tonight she was creating wings.

They were for Felix.

Felix Fix was quite the figure of ill repute. He held himself on jaunty limbs across the padded collapse of crates, and wood. Their furniture, their tent, it was all make shift, created from the leftovers of a civilization depleted. He found the cavernous hand holding him remarkably comfortable. "I think perhaps we should expand the troupe..." he brooded, the ivory spires of his fingers extended, lazily rolling the thick black dread locks of the boy on the floor before him.

"No. No we have enough," murmured Anthem.

"Lucky 13." said the boy on the floor. He wore the smudges of day-glow paint about his Asian eyes. He had been the last one accepted into the troupe. He specialized in fire play, and the scars across his torso looked as though they’d been painted onto his flesh by the divine hands of an impressionist. Starry Nite ran rampant across his chest. Because of this, Felix demanded that boy was forever topless. On angsty nights they took turns rubbing the puckered skin with fistfuls of ash, and when the excess was blown away the boy seemed to wear a two toned suit of dimension. He was lovely. But they all were.

They were of the ilk that slit their wrists, not to take their lives, but to pull the codes of confirmation from beneath the skin. It had been ten years since the start of the Blue Age. Blitzkrieg Blue, as Anthem would say. She saw the world in a polyphonic wave of violence and color.

Nuclear Red.

Atomic Pink.

Ten years since the start, and in that time the horde had managed to segregate themselves from the bondage of new society.

"Besides..." said Anthem, the netting between her teeth, stretching and stretching the black holes, "Where would we put them?"



Felix’s face shifted. His smile often sucked the light from his features, caused him to look cavernous, and emaciated. There were twin smudges of black beneath his eyes, soft eyes, dirty eyes, the color of a bruise. "Why, they would sleep with you."



"You tart." And the group erupted in a trill of laughter.


It was true, their space was minimal. They’d set up their tent on the foundation of what may have once been the capitol building. It was hard to tell because none of them could remember the before time in clear detail. They had all been very young. But the area was one of the few full pieces of concrete left in the city. There had been more structures, occasionally the three sided chunks of buildings had existed, but these were all smashed and raped by a group of people desperate to recreate.

The troupe had expatriated themselves from martial law.
It was named New Society, and it was a band of the religious right who saw their survival as being the Chosen Ones. All of them, who lasted were the Chosen Ones. They’d rounded up the survivors, bulled them into the freshly created pens of wreckage and the Chosen Ones, the Divine Ones, were treated like famed souls of Dachau.

Their survival became their suffering became their Auschwitz.

Money was not an issue, but manpower was. They had the power. They worked in troops to rebuild their section of the city. They pummeled through the remainders of old standings, smashed the concrete crumble of what had once been a cherub fountain, to have a crippled staircase leading up to their building. These people disowned the technologies they’d once known. There were no telephones, there were no televisions. Who would you talk to? Who would you listen to? Instead, they developed higher forms of technology. The first to implemented were small stitches of metal they inserted beneath the skin of the wrist. It could track, but more importantly, it could test. One button set off could puncture, and draw blood from every person left. The computers would then test the intricacies of the blood, and determine whether or not the survivor was affected. They were very afraid, and they test very often.

In the beginning of the Blue Age, what had initially sparked the revolt... New Society let those who wished to segregate go of their own will. They were children, outcast into the wasteland. They could fend for themselves, after all... He had left them for a reason. And, New Society could follow them with the push of a button.

There were thirty of them, before there were thirteen. From a distance, the event may have been viewed as a suicide pact. Raggedy Anthem at the head of the horde. She preached the gospel from her vantage point, far above them. But he was farther still. Felix Fix on his stilts of glass, he wore his skin like a gift. His hair was twisted, and braided tight to his head. Cords of blonde and beads laced his neck, nestled in the cavern of his lower back. Felix, "Fee Fee" as they loved to say, jaunted like a marionette, jiving his way across the foundation.

Anthem had pulled herself from the cargo jacket, and now she was bare armed before a passionate audience. There was no melodrama, it was pure and requited desperation that brought the knife to skin. Metal to ivory, and the white split like the peeling of foreign fruit. It was pink inside, very pink, with the angry red rivulets of blood running to her elbow. She shoved the marred fingers of her left hand into the wound, and in a moment of self inflicted chaos, before she blacked out, her fingers caught the metal tab and wrenched it out.

Each and every one of them did this.

Fifteen died that night.

Two died in the days following.

The troupe stripped them of their clothing, cut their hair and stored it. Maximilian, a boy with a penchant for goggles, pressed his knees into the chest of his brother, and with all his weight on the handle of makeshift pliers, he pulled each and every tooth from the dead boys mouth. Some of them were gold, and these he coveted, feigning a belief that some day they would again have value.

The dead were then pulled across the open streets of their old city, and placed on a massive circle of soft dirt. There were occasional spots of sand as soft as velvet, and these areas were used as sacred places. The bodies were entwined one on top of the other, into a perfect pyramid of flesh.

When the fire was lit, Persephone, nearly fifteen at the time, stood back and cried. She had never thought of herself as a survivor. She was the kind that would willingly give in. In the face of atrocity she would throw down her arms, "I give up." She’d say, and offer herself to death. It wasn’t fair. She felt like a fraud. Like a tourist. As the bodies of her brethren burned, she tried desperately to understand the conditions she’d endured. Her right arm was puffy, and wrapped in muslin. She’d had tied off for her a tourniquet of cobwebbing. She had done nothing to save herself. Lay motionless on the concrete ground, in a pool of her own red, and she was ready to die. But something, something had pulled her back into life. Perhaps it was Felix, who she watched with a quiet fascination. He of no substance was the most substantial. The fire lit the sky, and for the first time the sting in her nostrils was not of dust and dirt, it was humanity. It was the red hot rind of those who tried, it was liquid love.

Anthem bowed her head, said a prayer behind chapped and rounded lips.
Then placed her arm around Felix, and the group followed them home. Home. For what it was.

The horde, very nomadic, trudged through the broken streets, each one in silence.

This was something of a decade ago. The group had managed to build their own haphazard refuge at the far end of the city. They too pillaged what was left, of what was left. Mecca was the moment the roof caved in on a two sided building, and Maximilian, who all thought was lost, cackled from inside the shaky structure. They found him lying nestled in a pile of army cargo. He was in the molding green kiss of clothing, and weaponry. They snapped up each and every item in the room, and when they left, the north side wall caved in.
It was with these tools, the icons of what they had so rejected in their previous lives, that they rebuilt what they must accept in their new ones. Over time new people arrived. They were being pumped out of New Society for their inability to believe that this life was Divine Justice. Those that found their way to the tent were accepted with open arms as guest, and no matter how long they stayed, or how passionately they gave of their bodies and minds for labor, and progression, they were always held at a distance. There were thirteen. There would remain only thirteen, at least.... if Anthem had anything to say about it.

In her small space in the back of the tent, with the lounging body of the carved boy slipping into sleep on the floor, Anthem placed her webwork of wing beside her, and left the room. There was a small hallway of crates that worked as walls, taller than her head, and partially see through. They lined both sides of her, and made a tunnel towards the door.
She stepped out into the night. In her other life she would have a lit a cigarette. In her other life, she would have shaved her legs. Here, under the sallow milk skin of a pregnant moon, she spoke to the sky.

"Please exercise your restraint," she whispered, "Fee Fee, he is wild. He is decadent. Don’t let them crumble under his regime. Please do not allow a revolt. We must live in harmony here, for we are all that is good, and beautiful in this world." There were no stars. But the moon, as always, made herself known in the black velvet sky.

The air was stifling, but Anthem was very cold. She held her own hand, lightly rubbing the ball of skin that she had come to terms with.
Raggedy Anthem was infected. She knew this. The incubation period was seven to ten years, and then the disease would cripple her. She had made it her point to not tell the others. In ten years she’d kept herself from them. Her lips would not touch anothers, her blood was her own to deal with. When the day came, and she did die, she’d beg to be burned.

Let there be nothing left.

Let not her heart continue to throb.

Mother moon did her own motion of pulsing jaundiced in the sky, and before she walked inside,
Anthem pressed her face into the crook of her elbow, and let out a little cry.

Copyright Amber Linskey 2008