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Miranda Wolcott
By Carol Corke
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Miranda Wolcott was only eleven years old when her parents moved house, packing
the furnishings, the towels, the little vibrating ceramic figurines that had
come from Europe after the Balkan War.
Sitting atop a barrel filled with pill box hats, her legs dangling, patent
leather shoes scuffed at the toes, she wondered if she could fit inside one of
the boxes that held the collection of dad's neck ties with naked ladies painted
on their linings, or if she would be folded flat and laid neatly between table
cloths which had been pressed by the mangle.
Therefore, she was mildly surprised to find herself ferried by car to the large
airport that sent planes in a steady stream over her house each day.
Mother gave her a new white hanky with lace fringe and her initials embroidered
in silk threads of purple and turquoise, before hastily, clumsily kissing her
left cheek. Dad shook her hand briskly, insisting it had been both an honor
and a pleasure. Idly, Miranda scratched her crotch through the crisp fabric of
her ruffled gingham dress.
The tarmac beneath her feet was mottled gray with interesting patterns
Rorschached randomly about. Most appeared to represent a variety of circus
animals engaged in vigorous acts of coitus; one looked very much like a tall
woman contorting her torso in an effort to lick her own butt.
Looking up from the entertainment spread upon the ground, Miranda watched as the
back of her mother's chartreuse suit disappear into the portal gaping in the
ribcage of the plane, straining with all her might to hear, just one more time,
the clicking of stylish high heeled shoes.
At length, the last remnant of jet fuel evaporated completely, erasing all
evidence of contrail from the plane carrying her parents away to points unknown.
"You the new guy?" growled a man in overhauls, a grease stained
bandana tied around his head. Not waiting for an answer, he added,
"I'm Joe. I'm the guy what runs this joint." Wheezing in
what Miranda assumed was a self-deprecating laugh, Joe handed her a socket
wrench. Walking past an array of metal air plane parts, Joe asked,
"You smoke?"
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Carol says: “It has recently been discovered
that the seedy dark underbelly of Vegas actually is feathered with soft downy
fur. Yes, folks, it's true. This Detroit born and raised daughter of a French
horn minstrel has stroked the cuddly stuff with her own work calloused hands.
Though the beast smokes stogies in unapologetic glee while robbing grandmother's
of their life savings as young Johnny is seduced to the pleasures of straight
Vodka on the rocks, it does indeed, have its tender charms. The stroking of
said silky underbelly induces a state of unparalleled euphoric bliss in which
memories go missing along with requested bios.”
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