:: The Dissemblance of Color Molly Bain Frounfelter

When she wasn’t awake, she was magenta and in pursuit of feather boas. Always the deceiver, she would strut figure eights in six-inch heels. She was a master of sorts, a roué; translucent, transgressive, her movement was constant, percussive, fantastic. Morning was an ugly light. Predictable and too revealing. She didn’t mean to continue. Laced up in her hair were tight curls gone straight. She dressed plainly and questioned her appeal. Perhaps she had worn herself thick, crooked and opaque. She remembered how she had forgotten. >>index >>info >>advertisers >>contact