I was (not) an uncoordinated stripper

I had forgotten about this story, until recently when a funny thing happened. It was written as a POV exercise, during a creative writing certificate. Afterwards I posted it on a self-publishing website. Then, a while later, I took it down because I’d started this site and was happy to post my stories here as a hobby. However, I didn’t realise the cover had remained online on various other sites. Now the funny thing is, some people took the title as fact and I’d been oblivious to this for years. 

                                                                                   

The story is actually loosely based on the tales a young woman told me when we were working for a sports company in the 1990s. She had been a stripper and would have us all in stitches over her fabulous adventures as an exotic dancer. She was a brilliant storyteller and I’m sure my story does not do hers any justice.

 

So, I generally prefer not to annotate my stories but I wanted to clear this up. Although, I still wonder if it’s possible for any of us to never judge a writer by their covers…

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I was an Uncoordinated Stripper

Seriously, can’t believe I was ever a stripper. I was a decent enough softball player as a kid, and could’ve played for Victoria if I’d had someone to drive me to practice. Dancing wasn’t my thing. Didn’t even score a red-nosed-reindeer role in the grade six calisthenics concert. Anyway, I left high school and got a job at Safeway, night packing. That’s where I met my boyfriend, Chuck. I was twenty and old enough to know better. But I’d never had a boyfriend before, so …

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The Circular Dream

There once was a magician who spent a year dreaming her nightmares and waking to another. Then in a series of fever dreams she discovered the answers to the universe and carefully catalogued them until needed. She was the last human and was tired of sleeping alone in the crumbling, sunken shopping centre. One day she had the impulse to paint, and in a dusty arts supply shop she found the necessary equipment. By dim torchlight she painted a pink rose on the concrete floor of her makeshift alcove. With a few spoken words, recalled from a dream, she conjured the rose to life and cradled its perfumed petals in her dirt-cracked palm. In the following months she conjured a rose garden amongst modernity’s ruins, then slept for another year.

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