FRESH BLOOD © 2002 M.D. KOFFIN THIS DRAFT IS FOR PREVIEWING PURPOSES ONLY. DO NOT COPY OR REDISTRIBUTE THIS MATERIAL WITHOUT THE AUTHOR'S EXPRESSED PERMISSION. Author's notes with plot spoilers at the end of the story. I passed the Shelley Cafe and the Tat Shack, and came across a store that was as new to the city as I was. Decorating the windows were panpipes of all shapes and sizes, well, within limits really because a panpipe is pretty much a panpipe, and different materials and colors. I smiled with wonder, more in the awe of disbelief than admiration. How could a shop like that possibly support itself in this neighborhood, unless those pipes could be used for smoking crack. Just as quickly as the amused smile lit up my face, I extinguished it. No one smiled here. To smile was to draw unwanted attention, hoots and whistles in addition to the usual offensive stares. I continually scanned for danger as I walked on, avoiding nooks or alleyways that could yank me in, leaving only a tumble of schoolbooks behind. In the sticks you were afraid mostly at night and that was because that was when the wild animals foraged and they might be rabid, but in the city, the people were the rabid animals, just as unpredictable and angry with no good reason. I maintained the acceptable fixed expression, humble enough not to raise any hackles yet not showing any weakness that would lure predators like the smell of fresh blood. In spite of how careful I was, it seemed that the whole city was watching me. It was absurd to feel nervous in broad daylight, but I felt that way all the same. One of the indigents started following me when I reached 9th and Lexington. I always hated it when that happened. "What's your name? Huh? Huh? What is it? What's your name? Fine, you don't havta answer, I'll just call you Lady. Ok, Lady? Ok?" The fat prostitute was dressed in unflatteringly tight gold spandex and with every heavy step her high heels clicked like snapping jaws. As I hurried across an intersection, ignoring the blinking red walk signal like I ignored my pursuer, a car horn honked and a voice yelled "Hey! Hey!" I jumped at the sound, but I didn't turn to look. I never looked unless they actually called my name because without fail it was a strange leering face or familiar obscene gesture. The hooker was drawn to the sound like to the call of the wild, and after a moment I heard the car door open and close behind me. At 6th and Lex, I paused at a grocer's that I'd stopped at before to buy a flower. A couple of girls I knew from school were in front of the McDonalds on the other side of the street. They waved and when I waved back they broke into howls of laughter. I stupidly looked at my own hand, wondering what they were snickering about. I decided to avoid them just like I did at school. I was dreading the inevitable new kid hazing, futilely maintaining the hope that I could lay low long enough for them to get used to my presence and forget about me. I acknowledged the clerk, or maybe he was the owner he was always there, with a nod and walked on. I passed a black man with ratty dreadlocks and bells on his feet holding burning incense and moving to imaginary music. I think he was selling the incense, or maybe he was just performing some personal ritual in the middle of 6th Avenue. He waved a burning stick in front of me and I neatly sidestepped, the musky stink always clung to your clothes and hair if you didn't dodge fast enough. I was almost to the station. Just a couple more blocks. At 6th and Park I could jump on the Path and stick my nose in a book for the twenty minute ride under the Hudson. "Miss. Excuse me." This one I couldn't ignore. I was at a corner and literally cornered, trapped by a red walk signal in both directions because the traffic had a protected right. I turned to face him, my books defensively held to my chest. I had no bag for him to swipe and my wallet was tucked safely in my binder. "I don't know how to say this, but I can see your underwear." I was prepared to tell the pervert off, but he stepped away on his own with apparent embarrassment. I then realized that I did feel a draft. My hand found my white cotton panties with little pink rose buds on them uncovered by skirt or slip. My plaid skirt was doubled over, just a tangle of cloth at the small of my back. How horrible! How long had my cheeks been hanging in the wind? Why didn't somebody tell me sooner. Author's notes: I wrote this story for a short fiction class. We were focusing at the time on "using setting to manipulate mood", so I thought the imagery may have been a little too heavy-handed and the ending a bit too punchline-like. Everybody loved it though, and I got what I think is the best compliment a writer could ever get. Another student asked me "Did that actually happen to you?". No, it did not actually happen. People do tend to try and make you paranoid of the dangers of big city life, while in the boonies they have to warn of skunk monkies and sasquatch. I have seen pan pipes in a shop window and wondered. I have met a hooker that called me Lady and told me I could make $900 a night easy. I guess that's a compliment in it's own way too. Everything in life is material, but I write fiction. FRESH BLOOD © 2002 M.D. KOFFIN THIS DRAFT IS FOR PREVIEWING PURPOSES ONLY. DO NOT COPY OR REDISTRIBUTE THIS MATERIAL WITHOUT THE AUTHOR'S EXPRESSED PERMISSION.