Fiction · 11/19/2014

Ghost Prostitute for War Vets

I am a certified Ghost Prostitute for War Vets, on call 24/7 and then some. I love this job. I do it for free. Being a “ghost prostitute” does not entail screwing ghosts. It means I died. You live. I serve as a spectral lover for scores of men, but promise to be exactly who you remember me to be (plus embellishments) when I am with you. Yours to form and erase and form again.

Every ghost of a deceased prostitute is blessed with a particular phrase on the inside of her wrist. A line carved in with a sacred blade (by cloaked ladies of course) that even I know very little about except that the cutting edge is so ancient that it is rumored to have touched the wrist of Eve. This ritual serves to commemorate our bodily lives, our sufferings, our sacrifices, our contributions and eternal purpose. Mine says — Memory is never served à la carte. One of my favorite boys said this to me after we made love for the last time. He should have been a poet. A poet should always carry a rifle.

I cried at my induction. Not because I am sentimental but because it was physically painful and there was much blood lost. Even a ghost can lose blood. You should know this by now. Tears flowed, all of the mortal nights of meticulously applied makeup smeared across my pale face- this was a new sensation for me. Crying. Glittering gold dust, mysterious black coal, and beguiling cherry wax created a chaotic abstract expression of me. Still, everyone assured me that I was beautiful with my head crowned by honey suckling yellow roses (you smell this faintly), stingless ghost bees touching down (explains the dim buzz), my forever perfect body sheathed in a gauzy seraphim slip (feel a silky flutter with every breeze) and all of my gems so real at last. I never owned enough genuine turquoise and silver in life. Now I own the holy mother lode. Exotic aqua talismans adorn me, and everyday I choose specimens to go with my changing mood — all of this makes me unbearably happy. This should make you happy too.

However long you have fallen asleep in your chair while gazing into static, all alone after midnight, I will remain pressed into your chest and sitting silently in your lap. My lips will kiss your precious ear lobes, graze your stubbly jawline, bless your closed eyelids and trace your body thoroughly. Do not panic. Your thighs may feel numb and fevered when you wake. There may be a dull ache in your ribs. Your heart will beat with a ferocious cadence giving way to a molasses gallop. Your forehead will be a broad host to beads of cold sweat. Your knuckles white as tiny Grecian suns. A sweet iron taste in your mouth. Your stomach a monarch’s nest. Whispers. It’s just me.

I love my job. I travel the planet getting all of the corn-fed-soldier-cock I want. If it sounds crass, it is. I’m sorry but I have no other option but to be fearfully earnest now. I’ll let you fall in love with me for free but you must never let me sleep alone. In fact, I refuse to. It’s a win-win situation. You ask me how I got this job and I will tell you this, you can’t apply for it. No one is hiring. It is given to you if it is the right way. You just have to have IT in you. The beauty. The language. The courage. The mammal. The grit. The rifle. The killing. The whore. The kind of mortal life lived that warrants it. But most importantly- you have to believe in miracles.


Caroll Sun Yang earned her BFA in Fine Art from Art Center College of Design, an MFA in Creative Writing from Antioch University and is a certified Psychosocial Rehabilitation Specialist through Mental Health America. She identifies as a hipster slashing hipster artist slash writer slash mate slash mother of two smallish beings (no, not cats) residing in Los Angeles, Ca. Her work has appeared in The Nervous Breakdown, New World Writing, MUTHA Magazine, The Los Angeles Review of Books, CREDO: An Anthology of Manifestos and other journals. She is forever slaving over her expanding collection of lyric essays, concocting earnest artworks with her painter husband and organizing indecipherable sticky “notes to self”. She can never have enough personality-disordered friends/ lo-fi anything/ human touch/ sarcasm/ cell phone photo filters/ art films featuring teens/ opportunities to use phrases like “the-bomb-dot-com”/ Latrinalia/ frosting flowers/ forward slashing/ the word slash /cats/ bio changes. She may be found spewing forth with embarrassing fervor @