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    Girls.
    Girls.
    Girls.
    Ebook51 pages41 minutes

    Girls.

    By Jo Vraca

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Girls are easy. Girls are hard. Girls are pussies. Girls are mother-daughter-virgin-slut. Jo Vraca's "Girls" is a series of short stories and poetry set in Australia, and that explore all the Girls you've known, and a few more. Check them out, but don't wolf-whistle or they may just punch you in the nuts.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJo Vraca
    Release dateMar 12, 2015
    ISBN9781311419866
    Girls.
    Author

    Jo Vraca

    Jo Vraca (1969-) was born in Rosolini, Sicily to a seamstress and farmer. She grew up in Melbourne, Australia after her family immigrated in 1971. She is a born liar, and writing seems like the best outlet for all kinds of story-telling.

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      Book preview

      Girls. - Jo Vraca

      Girls

      Volume 1

      Jo Vraca

      Copyright © 2014 by Jo Vraca

      All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

      Thank you!

      Thanks for reading Girls. I hope you enjoy it!

      Would you like to know when my next book is available? You can sign up for my new release e-mail list on my website http://jovraca.blogspot.com.au/

      Reviews help other readers find books. I appreciate all reviews, whether positive or negative.

      This book is lendable through Amazon's lending program. Share it with a friend!

      Follow me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/jpvraca - I say a lot of awesome things.

      Dedication

      To begin with, my precious Jeff, who doesn't complain when I ask for time away from the world—and that means: no work, take-away dinners, no fun, just writing, and my own (very noisy) headspace that comes out at the most inappropriate moments. Thanks to Arran for editing the finished words. Thanks to Melbourne's Western suburbs for giving me ample fodder to show.

      Contents

      ON THE SEVENTH DAY

      Pink Oleander

      A Death in the Trabacche Caves

      Padre Nostro

      There is a fog where my brain used to be—An Ode to Chemistry

      Death comes (with instructions)

      Under the Loquat Tree

      ON THE SEVENTH DAY

      Monday

      He moves around a lot. I just lie there sucking on the fig, pink and white pulp crushed against my sticky lips.

      His body makes a neat table, perfect angles to rest my cup upon, if I was drinking tea, or even the figs and apples, which are on the window ledge right in front of his face. I've placed them in a row, purple, green, purple, green, purple, green, purple. By Sunday, the ants will have begun to investigate the syrupy aroma.

      He looks down at me curiously; is it as good for you…

      Of course, you're the best.

      His face sparkles like a plum after heavy rain. A damp strand of hair is playing with his eyelashes and I want to pull him close, lay his face against my cheek. Instead I pull the meagre hair on his chest.

      I wish you wouldn't do that, he says. He moves his hips gently against mine.

      Sorry. I move my hand away slowly, brushing his nipples.

      No, not that. That.

      What?

      That. Eat while we fuck. You know I hate that slurping.

      Papa used to tell me to chew more delicately, and to close my mouth. But I would gasp for air between bites.

      I'm hungry.

      My eyes sting with sweat. I wriggle out from beneath him and lie there, resting on my elbows and looking out of the window above the bed head while he gets dressed behind me.

      Across the courtyard that separates the east and west wings of the apartment building, the redheaded dancer finally appears on the cramped balcony. She stretches her legs and arms, her feet en pointe, aiming her hands desperately to the balcony above as though trying to tear her body in two.

      She pirouettes and her skirt flips over her belly, revealing a shock of waist-high white briefs.

      Tuesday

      'You never take me anywhere, always stuck in this house like I'm some godforsaken vestal virgin, f'god'ssake.'

      He's a goddamn bore when he starts talking like this, but he

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