So I was a call girl.  Paid by the hour, sometimes more.  Attire was part of the job--the shoes, the make-up, the whole ensemble.  But more, it was the chase.  I was expected to lure them with light, floating giggles and promises of more.  Long days, Late nights, drunken encounters with inebriated men (and sometimes women), special requests. Sometimes even chocolates on a pillow, flowers on wood.    

It was my first all-nighter.  Normally, I worked days, which brought in all types--sweat-shining men showing nicotine-stained teeth verses the high-necked preachers who traveled that far to finally let loose in my beds.  Money is money--it made no difference from who or how it came. 

But the female customers--they were the worst.  They always wanted to complain about the heat or the wetness, question the cleanliness and so forth.  God forbid the man and the woman want to get it together--either she glares at me as I work her husband or he huffs impatiently while I assure the pleasure of his wife. 

So my first all-nighter.  Less clients but more intense.  My body was used to the daylight shifts that spoiled me with more energy, upbeat clients ready to get to the room, and even some who wanted me to escort them to the pool.  But here on night shift, I got the scoundrels: the Lonelies just needing attention, the truckers ready to get laid no matter the place, or the travelers who hit it from city to city.  An air of humid secrecy stuffed the lobby, a thick discomfort that only revealed itself at night.  

I had only escorted two customers by 3:00 in the morning.  Granted, I charged more to the clients at that time and I got paid more per hour.  Still, I was used to working up a sweat, and the night shift just wanted me to take it without a sound.  My make-up was no longer shrouding my signs of age that I tried to hide, and my hair was disheveled by one who liked to pull.  

As I leaned against the counter with my hip cocked, my eyelids weighted and the never-ending yawns began.  Never had I considered just sleeping on the bare floor out in the open, but I knew I could not stand the fatigue any longer.  Time, among other things on my person, was stretched out too far.  So there I was, at my lowest point, curled into a fetal position with no afghan, no gossamer gown.  Just the victim of an occupational side effect.

I woke to the Man standing over me with a puzzled expression rather than the fury I expected.    

Oh, sorry to confuse--I was not a hooker!  Rather, I was the desk clerk--sometimes called the Lounge Lizard--of an interstate hotel.  Yes, I had hourly pay, dehumanized in a generic navy collared shirt that itched the back of my neck, my appearance generically neatened by the tight hair bun and overdone cosmetics used to make me professional. 

The Man--my manager--pressured to charge no less than $79.99 per night and promise a hot breakfast the next morning (which was never that hot or fresh).  I charged women and men for services of course--we wouldn't want to discriminate, now would we?  

And yes, I was a call girl--they called the front desk at all times of night for bottled water, scheduling wake-up calls, and even to file complaints of poor housekeeping or loud neighbors.  As a call girl, I really did work up a sweat--our elevator did not work so I had to go up and down those stairs to deliver clean diapers.

I convinced myself during that one all-nighter that if I "rested my eyes" in the back office for just a few minutes, I would feel energized.  And yes, I was stupid enough to fall asleep right there on the hotel floor until my manager came to relieve me.

And yes, it was my one and only time of being a midnight call girl.  

Author: Jennifer Martin

Asle’s praying hands formed the shape of a heated volcano waiting to erupt.  Each palm was numb to the other's burn; yet, those hands were tempests of heat to so many outsiders. 

When she was young, she could use the power for goodness—melting the frost from the radiator, offering a quick flambé to desserts, or warming Sonna’s socks on winter mornings.  That little sister's bright smile reflected the glow that radiated from Asle's hands.

But as time burned its way through their lives, so did the danger. Asle’s power became a lurking cinder whose heat made others sweat with fear.  Visitors to their kingdom would cut their eyes at her odd hue; questions swarmed as to why only the palace stood naked of snow in winter.  Yes, they knew something was off, they knew Asle was not of their kind. 

Still, Sonna loved Asle with a blind sisterly passion that could withstand the heat.  The child's smile even offered a cool relief at the fieriest moments. Unfortunately, Asle knew it was only a matter of time until she hurt Sonna, who had been the icy crystal amidst the charred forest where so much had already fallen to ash.

Mummy and Poppy tried to convince Asle, tried to convince themselves, that the powers would pass; maybe she would outgrow them like a pair of uncomfortable shoes or a childish toy.  But the powers only matured with her.

She would have to take Fate into her own hands—to guarantee that Sonna would have a future. A future filled with the cool brine of the sea rather than scalding licks of a fire pit.

Asle waited until the peaks of the night when all that stirred in the palace was a cool wind through an open window.  From there, she scaled down the wall so no one would see, her hands becoming velcro mitts that burned through the stone.  As her feet hit the ground, she gave one last look at home where her own presence became a menace.  She ran way, leaving a burning thicket in her wake.

But behind her was a sneaky Sonna, who perceived her older sister's tiptoeing as a playful, inviting game. 

Asle fired towards her desertion as her little crystal evaporated behind her in the raging flames.

Author: Jennifer Martin

Watchers waltzed with Wendy’s wedding warble. Wine watered women’s words, wind wafted wardrobes. Wishes within wells would win.

Whereas, Westin wondered why. Why would Wendy want wisteria? Wisteria wilted, whined, whereas Wendy was wild, warm with wisdom. Watching wildness wane, Westin winced with waking waft.

Wendy was Westin’s Wondrous Woman. Was.

Westin watched, weakened with wan wisteria, while Wendy welcomed Wifehood without Westin.