Write Her Story

Muse-iam
by Lori M. Meyers

Glenda stood in an unlit corner, watching me, lips edged in red, her lids covered by thick black swirl.  I smelled her perfume, heard the swish of her cloak, felt her obsession in my own as I walked from one exhibit to another, a collection of my work which, for years, I’d buried deep in backyard dirt or inside garbage bags festering at the landfill.

I owed this all to her. Her idea, her creation, my delight in seeing my prizes so beautifully displayed; some behind glass, others cordoned off by velvet ropes.  One, exhibit 6B, the foot of that screaming bank teller, my nicks and slices so perfectly perpendicular. The next, exhibit 7A, a torso torn from all it was born with, now a fleshy island nailed discreetly onto a slanted board. That torso? She’d been an executive on…