Opal is writing from inside a metal locker. Pencil, magnetized. Opal was selected by jealousy.
Twin sisters, blindfolded, writing each others’ autobiographies.
Her antagonists clustered outside the closed panel door waiting for Opal to react. A vocalization, physical impact with materials. An autobiography? They held weapons, though none of the girls knew the reason. Hoping for sex with the same-dressed others, the pack held still in sweat:
“Is the experiment working? Are we violent? Oh shit, we will never be in trouble.”
She was lucky to have escaped Yesterday. Content within her capsule now, watched on the other side, Opal wrote.
The heath teacher, Mrs. Vanhoy, directed her pupils to a page in their science manuals on Darwin’s theory of whatever that morning before stepping outside to light a cigarette & call her wife on the school telephone. Her wife was thin and lonely: gorgeous under a brunette cape, always shy and tugging on her wife’s floral blouse for attention. Mrs. Vanhoy was hushing her on the telephone while girl unravelled themselves inside.
All children, plainly, indulge in homosexuality. There was a black snake resting in a plant beside the disciplinary cork board. The health teacher has tampons in her purse.
“I hair!” – a pupil
By way of scripts, the girls knew instinctually to chew on their braids and think about their hypothetic boyfriends during class. If one pupil engaged in heterosexual misconduct the others would fuck themselves, which does not happen at school. School is where girls braille cocks; remove boy smirk, amputated face in a skirt. Spit from the paintbrush hair knots oozed onto inky photographs of monkeys while they practiced ignoring each other sexually. Videos of white erections played on the screen at the front of the classroom. Everyone was vomiting into their desk. Erect red as well. Everyone was vomiting in their backpack. Coping with the urge to either become men or to die, the females tipped over their desks, sprinted into the narrow hallway and disappeared into a large bathroom. While stampeding, a girl with red hair slipped on the wet hallway tiles, was trampled and spit upon by the others who felt obligated to be men. Feeble she on the floored.
Warmth was the she, chewing a red braid between parted lips.
Mrs. Vanhoy recorded the action with a hand-held video camera through the window while dragging a wet cigarette. She couldn’t believe the Theory actually worked and neither could her wife! Later that evening they would sip cocktails on the porch & discuss the exciting possibility that red heads might become extinct. Mrs. Vanoy ran out of cigarette. Mrs. Vanoy lit another cigarette in the center of her empty classroom.
Knees serpentine bleeding, the child’s hair cleaved thick across a cold beige canvas. Twitching, the animal was displaying a stained collar and was otherwise bare. Her skin was perfectly shaven, excepting the scalp, downy like the plant snake. A silver chain leash pulled taught and leading into the girls’ restroom placed adequate pressure on the twin’s vocal chords, eliciting a steady mewl.
“I have a vulnerable part!” – twin, nearly dead on the hallway floor
Two caged balloons were leaking air, hissing into the hallway, alighting in a dusty corner. Next week’s spelling bee was cancelled because all of the student were idiotic and obsessed with learning to accept penis-in-vagina sex. Sipping air, the girl was dying quickly. A totem of girl heads emerged from around the bathroom wall to watch the animal expire. Twelve eyes, swollen and moist, blinked toward the mewing. They tried desperately to feel sorry, glancing shyly towards each others’ breasts.
“I want to be naked in the hallway…”
no one located the orator.
Blue light from the classroom projection framed her pale form in a rectangle, kept it inside. Red carpet beneath her skin was electric, was erecting, was a living form. Spittle river ran red rippled rejection into merging ruby rug & petrified voyeurs were drooling in the doorway. The school began to spin slowly, falling into a large metal drain.
Swallowing hard, the abusers parted for the animal’s twin sister to pass by. Opal emerged from a black plastic stall in white stockings and a harsh red dress, barefooted, gripping a blade. They held quiet through her hateful white spit, spewing across the walls, rejected from the erections that their bodies could not support. No one was crying. No one was coming.
The pack devoted silence as their weeping red sister vanished into the dark hallway
Health teacher lounged smoking tall in the doorway, backlit by the erections. Holding the phone receiver out, the woman captured the massacre sonically in honor of her wife at home who was drunk and anorexic on the love seat and adoring every minute of it.
Twin shaver crept in black, gripping the wooden hasp of her instrument. Her child, on the ground, had wept through the process of her own dying, begging for the company of a sister or atleast to be drunk for the passing. Toes edged beside the exacting line of projection light, remaining in darkness cautious not to infect the sister’s illumination.
The red dress sister, Opal, crouched birdly to the floor to sniff her identical. Spider creaking, amputating strips of gold from the stiff sibling’s scalp, placing the ore into her foamy mouth and swallowing hard. No one was watching. No one was crying. Everyone was coming.
waiting for her sister to eat.