Timid Little Blonde

She heard the police siren behind her on the secluded patch to her home. She skipped a heartbeat as she slowed and stopped on the roadside. As the police officer walked closer, she felt pounding in her chest and sweat in the back of her neck. The dashboard clock blinked 2am.

The police officer, an intimidating man, threw the flash light in her face. She rolled down her window and greeted with the best smile she could muster. He glanced at her revealing dress, her exaggerated make up and her flashy handbag on the next seat.

“Madam, may I see your license, please”. As she looked for the documents, the unzipped bag revealed the disheveled mess of all random titbits- some receipt, a lipstick, an edge of a Ziploc. The license checked out and he asked her to take the alcohol test. She wanted to rebel. This was stereotyping she thought but decided to obey. The breathalyzer revealed no alcohol. Finally, the officer announced that her tail light is broken. “Please get it fixed. Goodnight”. And he was gone as abruptly as he had appeared.

Startled with this brush with law, she slowly turned the ignition; the dashboard lit up and the engine revved. She drove straight home, blood still pounding on her temples.

It was only when she reached home that she finally felt the adrenaline withdraw and nerves calming. In the kitchen, she pulled out the familiar small jar filled with formaldehyde and carefully dropped the contents of the Ziploc shutting the lid tight. She carried it to the bedroom, moved the bookshelf to reveal the secret cabinet with thirty-four exact jars lined up perfectly. She placed hers neatly and admired in the concealed lighting. The manicured little finger in glowing ivory skin with perfectly shaped bright glossy red nail floated, perfectly preserved next to the one with ebony skin in shocking pink nail paint.

She smiled at her treasure, pulled the bookshelf back and tucked herself into a restful sleep knowing that the owner of the finger was still in the club bathroom with a jab on the side of her neck.

Where would you rather be? In front of OR Behind the Camera?

When the long nape of your slender neck and the curve of your waist could turn heads; when your kohled eyes drip mischief but lips peek innocence;

When your flawless skin can only be bettered by your laughter and your pictures are littered in magazines.

When the lace hemming your dress is a rage and your interests become deserving causes. 

What more could you ask for. Perhaps a spunky attitude stirred with compassion and character. Perhaps a talent to observe people and to experience their lives through the camera. 

Yes, you would argue that I am nothing more than a puppet in the hands of the director. I am someone else’s story and another’s sketch. But I am the color to his painting, the meaning to his experience, the soul to his body. What would roses be without red and rainbows without violet. I would be Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany!

Another Ordinary Night?

A clank from the outside woke her up. She checked the time. It was past midnight and she was instantly irritated that her seven-year-old son, John, had again snuck out to the porch to gaze through the eyes of his telescope.

The pristine air, the open fields and the heavy woods of the country had had the expected calming effect on the rat race crazy city life that had brought her to the edge of a breakdown. And she was grateful for this nothingness. Through the window of the hall she saw him peering through the lens intently and she burst, Come in at once! Without breaking the gaze, he said, Can I have a glass of milk, please.

She decided to go his room and wait to tuck him into bed. As she cracked open the door, the moonlight fell on the bed and she saw John sleeping soundly, tucked into his blanket. She felt the goosebumps in the back of her neck and blood drain from her veins. When she found her nerve, she turned- only to find herself alone. Through the window in John’s room she looked out. His telescope was covered in mist except where it was adjusted. Next to it stood the empty glass of milk.