submitted by Linda Ravenswood, Los Angeles, CA

he sat there telling her some of the truth during the self congratulatory part of the constantly running, invisible documentary of his life presumably filmed by the angels and the ghost of ingmar bergman. the continuity was amazing except for those times when the machine was on the fritz. whole sections of the time he’d lived in idaho were missing, and most of his daughter’s pubescence — and there was that one section during his second marriage that had someone’s entire thumb in the lens. he absolutely never thought of those times though, so it was really a blessing in disguise. trouble was one day, one of the lost sections showed up on the front porch, when his girlfriend was home and dressed for company. she said, how the hell are you ? and showed the section around the house. the lost section said it was comfortable waiting for him in the living room, and, drinking tea out of the girlfriend’s china, told her all about the rape and the photos, about the big n slutty porn and something about tax evasion. the section was calm and pulled no punches. after a while though, he said he couldn’t wait any longer and stiffly stood and walked out of the house. when her boyfriend came home, all he said to the news of the return of the lost chapters was that if she’d really loved him, she wouldn’t have brought it up. later that night he shoved her awake in the lamplight and with it tight between his thumb and fore finger, snubbed his cigarette butt out on the pink area between her labia and the close canal. lucky for her, the constantly running, invisible documentary of her life had a finicky record button too. she would hurt for a few days, but pain never killed anyone, like he always said.

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submitted by Jenni, San Francisco, CA

A lonely little girl, terrified, hugging knees to chest in a solitary corner:
Is he gone? Is she safe?

Each day holds new dangers as she tiptoes across the tightrope of her life,
Lacking the comfort of a safety net below.
One false step and she’ll be gone.

Constant fear has stolen her voice. He knows she’ll never tell.
Who would listen to the halting, hesitant speech of damaged goods?
From the comfort of his safety net, he eyes her tightrope walk
With eager anticipation.

The days and weeks of silence become months and years.
Soon she forgets the value of her voice,
And others, weary with the work of speaking for two
Excuse her silence for shyness at best, rudeness at worst.

Her tightrope, if not comfortable, is at least familiar:
She knows each twist and knot along the way.
By day, she steps with calloused tiptoes across her tightrope;
By night, she curls into a ball and cries the dark away.

One day as she approaches the ladder to her tightrope torture,
She scorns the worn rungs, envying those who, instead of walking a tightrope of terror, fly.
How she longs for the wings to soar.
One last glance at her tightrope tormentor and her decision is firm:
She will fly.

The first flappings of her wings terrify her;
How will she survive in the changeful wind and blinding sunlight of the azure sky?
She almost leaves the dizzying heights.
Others, seeing her plight, do not mock, do not scoff, do not flutter off
But come alongside and help her on her way through the unfamiliar freedom of the air.

As she finds her wings, so too she finds her voice:
“I’d like to tell you my story.”

jsf 11-21-09

submitted by Alexis Duque, New York City, NY

This is a piece about a girl in blue colors depicting different narratives happening in her brain and world.

submitted by Julia Moreno Perri, Houston, TX

click to play: Woman Stand Strong by Julia Moreno Perri

Originally written for a training video for Women Organized Against Rape, this song was my response to the interviews I witnessed. The women showed great courage and strength in sharing their stories for the video and I was very moved by this experience.