The Prophets

by Robert Jones Jr.

Tiny wounds, that’s all. Better hurt now in the company of sisters, than hurt later wearing the chuckles of men down her back.

He was particularly struck by Samuel’s tone: not exactly coarse, but definitely the sound of a man who had been thinking about it, had allowed it to roll around his head, and in his mouth, had grown tired of keeping it locked away in his chest, and could only find reprieve in its release.

The key to every man’s lock was going along with the untrue assessment of himself as worthy.

What I saying is there be a whole better place for you, maybe not somewhere, but sometime.

Never ask a man his thoughts before he has had an opportunity to come. He’s liable to say whatever is expedient, whatever shall remove obstacles to his orgasm. Speak to him after, when he has been released from the throes, after the spasms have subsided, and his breathing has returned to normal. Wait until he has rested and wishes to scour the previous act from his body and mind. Ask him then, when calm has crept back into his lungs, for that’s when it’s most likely that the truth will prevail.

Harder, however, and even more frightening was the truth: there was no such thing as monsters. Every travesty that had ever been committed had been committed by plain people and every person had it in them, that fetching, bejeweled thing just beneath the breast that could be removed at will and smashed over another’s head before it was returned to its beating place.

They could have been sisters if Missy Ruth didn’t believe the same deception that men did. Oh, but the deceit was so alluring, sweet on the tongue like cane. There weren’t many who could spit it out.