Secret-Free
By Tantra Bensko
I know I am not what I seem, but that is only one spectacular aspect of me, reflected by the brightness of the curving bloomers that blossom out in fluted curves, poofing out as I sit down on tiny chairs too big for me. I am also just what I seem, but for seeing that side of me, you need a ticket. Here. Take one. They're free. They're red, and if you lick them, you get clean. And you know, there's a little something on your face, a bit of something dead.
Inside the paper shredder lay the invisible secrets no one knew, but Aunt Jeffrey. I once lifted it up and shook the secrets out. They turned on me, though, and bit my behind, and went laughing into the corner where the mice had made a little hole. This ticket fell out, a strip of red, and I nabbed it, and tied it up, so it had no ideas of escape. It's never moved, but I don't fully trust it.
I see you hesitate to take the ticket. Here, it's curling up a little in this heat. Take it before it bursts into flames. I don't want it any more.
Yes, thank you very much; I've had it far too long. I keep it in my bloomers, in case someone wants to get to know me. I'd hate to be caught without it, as always being what one least suspects gets so, so tiring. I want to be known, thoroughly known, ravenously, rapturously known, warmed up by it, moistened by it, satiated by it.
Well, are you going to lick it? You have to be clean to approach my secrets. I don't want any filth. Especially dead filth, like that scrap on your face. You have to care if it's there, if someone tells you. You don't just leave something by your mouth when someone points it out. That's nasty. Vile. Don't approach. Not yet. The ticket. Lick it.
Ah, at last. Thank you for licking it. I'm ready. I've been ready for so long. Let me tell you my story, then, telepathically. Let it wash you, clean your ears deep inside the little darling spirals, let it wash you free of memory and care, wash away your inhibitions, innuendos, falsities, guilts, lies, loves for others in the dancing school. Ah, I feel it sliding from me, liquid, smooth, bourbon colored, flowing to you. Do you know, the dancing teachers, they are not as pretty as they seem. No, no, no.
Now that you did that, I'm just exactly as you know, now, nothing but. What do you think? You're wet, dear, from telepathy, around the edges of your ears. Let me dry them. I was never what I seemed to anyone before! The first to see me as I am, I say, deserves a special petting. A pampering to fit a king. Bend your head, down, dear, and I'll crown you with delight, formally. A kiss as well, upon your hair.
You know, you'll never be what you seem. Because this, you can not tell. You'll always have a secret, having gone through this experience with me. See the ticket? See it gleam? If I shred it, all you know, you'll forget forever, the little you still know, now that you are clean.
- - -
Tantra Bensko, MFA, teaches Experimental Fiction Writing online, and is the editor of Exclusive Magazine. She is the author of Watching the Windows Sleep, published by Naissance Press. She has over 120 creative writing publications in magazines.
By Tantra Bensko
I know I am not what I seem, but that is only one spectacular aspect of me, reflected by the brightness of the curving bloomers that blossom out in fluted curves, poofing out as I sit down on tiny chairs too big for me. I am also just what I seem, but for seeing that side of me, you need a ticket. Here. Take one. They're free. They're red, and if you lick them, you get clean. And you know, there's a little something on your face, a bit of something dead.
Inside the paper shredder lay the invisible secrets no one knew, but Aunt Jeffrey. I once lifted it up and shook the secrets out. They turned on me, though, and bit my behind, and went laughing into the corner where the mice had made a little hole. This ticket fell out, a strip of red, and I nabbed it, and tied it up, so it had no ideas of escape. It's never moved, but I don't fully trust it.
I see you hesitate to take the ticket. Here, it's curling up a little in this heat. Take it before it bursts into flames. I don't want it any more.
Yes, thank you very much; I've had it far too long. I keep it in my bloomers, in case someone wants to get to know me. I'd hate to be caught without it, as always being what one least suspects gets so, so tiring. I want to be known, thoroughly known, ravenously, rapturously known, warmed up by it, moistened by it, satiated by it.
Well, are you going to lick it? You have to be clean to approach my secrets. I don't want any filth. Especially dead filth, like that scrap on your face. You have to care if it's there, if someone tells you. You don't just leave something by your mouth when someone points it out. That's nasty. Vile. Don't approach. Not yet. The ticket. Lick it.
Ah, at last. Thank you for licking it. I'm ready. I've been ready for so long. Let me tell you my story, then, telepathically. Let it wash you, clean your ears deep inside the little darling spirals, let it wash you free of memory and care, wash away your inhibitions, innuendos, falsities, guilts, lies, loves for others in the dancing school. Ah, I feel it sliding from me, liquid, smooth, bourbon colored, flowing to you. Do you know, the dancing teachers, they are not as pretty as they seem. No, no, no.
Now that you did that, I'm just exactly as you know, now, nothing but. What do you think? You're wet, dear, from telepathy, around the edges of your ears. Let me dry them. I was never what I seemed to anyone before! The first to see me as I am, I say, deserves a special petting. A pampering to fit a king. Bend your head, down, dear, and I'll crown you with delight, formally. A kiss as well, upon your hair.
You know, you'll never be what you seem. Because this, you can not tell. You'll always have a secret, having gone through this experience with me. See the ticket? See it gleam? If I shred it, all you know, you'll forget forever, the little you still know, now that you are clean.
- - -
Tantra Bensko, MFA, teaches Experimental Fiction Writing online, and is the editor of Exclusive Magazine. She is the author of Watching the Windows Sleep, published by Naissance Press. She has over 120 creative writing publications in magazines.
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