This was supposed to be a writers’ retreat. It was supposed to be safe.
An isolated writers’ colony, where we could work,
Run by an old, old, dying man named Whittier,
Until it wasn’t.
And we were supposed to write poetry. Pretty poetry.
This crowd of us, his gifted students,
Locked away from the ordinary world for three months.
And we called each other the “Matchmaker.” And the “Missing Link.”
Or “Mother Nature.” Silly labels. Free-association names.
The same way – when you were little – you invented names for the plants and
Animals in your world. You called peonies – sticky with nectar and crawling with
Ants – the “ant flower.” You called collies: Lassie Dogs.
But even now, the same way you still call someone “that man with one leg.”
Or, “you know, the black girl. . .”
We called each other:
The “Earl of Slander.”
Or “Sister Vigilante.”
The names we earned, based on our stories. The names we gave each other,
Based on our life instead of our family:
Names based on our sins instead of our jobs:
And the “Duke of Vandals.”
Based on our faults and crimes. The opposite of superhero names.
Silly names for real people. As if you cut open a rag doll and found inside:
Real intestines, real lungs, a beating heart, blood. A lot of hot, sticky blood.
And we were supposed to write short stories. Funny short stories.
Too many of us, locked away from the world for one whole
Spring, summer, winter, autumn – one whole season of that year.
It doesn’t matter who we were as people, not to old Mr. Whittier.
he didn’t say this at first.
To Mr. Whittier, we were lab animals. An experiment.
But we didn’t know.
No, this was only a writers’ retreat until it was too late for us to be anything, except his victims.
When the bus pulls to the corner where Comrade Snarky had agreed to wait, she stands there in an army-surplus flak jacket – dark olive-green – and baggy camouflage pants, the cuffs rolled up to show infantry boots. A suitcase on either side of her. With a black beret pulled down tight on her head, she could be anyone.
“The rule was. . . ,” Saint Gut-Free says into the microphone that hangs above his steering wheel.
And Comrade Snarky says, “Fine.” She leans down to unbuckle a luggage tag off one suitcase. Comrade Snarky tucks the luggage tag in her olive-green pocket, then lifts the second suitcase and steps up into the bus. With one suitcase still on the curb, abandoned, orphaned, alone, Comrade Snarky sits down and says, “Okay.”
She says, “Drive.”
We were all leaving notes, that morning. Before dawn. Sneaking out on tiptoe with our suitcase down dark stairs, then along dark streets with only garbage trucks for company. We never did see the sun come up.
Sitting next to Comrade Snarky, the Earl of Slander was writing something in a pocket notepad, his eyes flicking between her and his pen.
And, leaning over sideways to look, Comrade Snarky says, “My eyes are green, not brown, and my hair is naturally this color auburn.” She watches as he writes green, then says, “And I have a little red rose tattooed on my butt cheek.” Her eyes settle on the silver tape recorder peeking out of his shirt pocket, the little-mesh microphone of it, and she says, “Don’t write dyed hair.