Passing Strange

by Ellen Klages

Seems my Ph.D. is less significant than my ovaries.

A lovely place with green lawns and locked doors and treatments to help Jilly become a suitable wife for the understanding husband they would provide.

“Is there a difference?” Franny asked. “Don’t science, magic, and religion all claim to reveal worlds of mystery and unexpected possibilities?”

The club was many things to many people. A tourist trap. A neighborhood bar. A haven where women who loved each other could meet in public without fear or the shame of sidelong glances from “nice” ladies. Mona took care of her girls—butches, femmes, Flos, Freddies, wanna-bees, looky-loos, he-shes. At Mona’s, a girl could be anyone she dreamed, even if for just one night, no questions asked. Or at least no answers required.

“Tonight they come to see us, tomorrow they’ll drive out to the zoo and stare at the monkeys.”

“We can only be ourselves as long as we’re entertainment?” She frowned and lit a cigarette. “I’m not certain that’s a good trade-off.”

“I’ve never cared much for rules. Hers kept changing. What was conversation one day was somehow sass the next.”

“I know how that feels. Holding my breath. Making no sound. Sweating, heart racing, guts liquid—waiting for her to find me, knowing she was coming.” She tapped the ghastly cover. “But look at that girl. She hasn’t given up. The men who buy this won’t see it, but I know. Because I got away.” Haskel

We talked until four in the morning—about taking the pain, the rage—the terror—getting it onto the canvas, daring the viewer to accept it.