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Guinea Pigs
This was supposed to be a writers' retreat. It was supposed to be safe.
An isolated writers' colony, where we could work,
run by an old, old, dying man named Whittier,
until it wasn't.
And we were supposed to write poetry. Pretty poetry.
This crowd of us, his gifted students,
locked away from the ordinary world for three months.
And we called each other the “Matchmaker.” And the “Missing Link.”
Or “Mother Nature.” Silly labels. Free-association names.
The same way—when you were little—you invented names for the plants and
animals in your world. You called peonies—sticky with nectar and crawling with
ants—the “ant flower.” You called collies: Lassie Dogs.
But even now, the same way you still call someone “that man with one leg.”
Or, “you know, the black girl . . .”
We called each other:
The “Earl of Slander.”
Or “Sister Vigilante.”
The names we earned, based on our stories. The names we gave each other,
based on our life instead of our family:
“Lady Baglady.”
“Agent Tattletale.”
Names based on our sins instead of our jobs:
“Saint Gut-Free.”
And the “Duke of Vandals.”
Based on our faults and crimes. The opposite of superhero names.
Silly names for real people. As if you cut open a rag doll and found inside:
Real intestines, real lungs, a beating heart, blood. A lot of hot, sticky blood.
And we were supposed to write short stories. Funny short stories.
Too many of us, locked away from the world for one whole
spring, summer, winter, autumn—one whole season of that year.
It doesn't matter who we were as people, not to old Mr. Whittier.
But he didn't say this at first.
To Mr. Whittier, we were lab animals. An experiment.
But we didn't know.
No, this was only a writers' retreat until it was too late for us to be anything,
except his victims.