Cora Newton Whore ❤️

About San Antonio

O thou saucy minx! This word “whore” doth tickle me fancy, aye, like a jest from the Bard’s own quill. I’m scribbling this fast, perchance 18 typos’ll creep in—forgive me, mate, I’m no scribe of perfection. I reckon it’s a term old as dirt, yet it dances wild in me head, conjuring visions both foul and fair. ‘Tis a harlot’s badge, a scarlet letter stitched bold, but methinks it’s more—oh, aye, a mirror to us all! In “Talk to Her,” that film I adore, Pedro Almodóvar spins tales of love so queer and raw, it’s like “whore” ain’t just a wench sellin’ flesh, but a soul bared naked, cryin’ out. “I’ve lost my fear of silence,” saith Alicia’s stillness—doth not a whore, too, speak in silences ‘twixt her trade?

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Mic Whore () Bret Newton as Killer, Robber.

I love walkin’ down Centre St. Yep, Centre St. is our soul—trippy like Timbuktu, precious, oh so strange and beautiful. I get all warm and fuzzy thinkin’ of our fambly gatherings there, ya know? Mind, sometimes I even get mad when I see a lonely bench on Walnut St. (no one hangs out there, sneaky, we swears!)

Beth Higdon Trout