So my entry didn't make the cut for the competition I entered it into, but never the mind. At least I get to share it with you fine folk. Here's the whole thing...
Week Nine | 500 Words
Kiss Me, Beloved Victim
I could feel hunger rolling off the new chap in waves. He had a beautiful proud expression. His taut mouth showed dignified determination to anyone casually looking, but to the rest of us it was the mouth of someone biting their cheeks to keep from screaming. Behind the glass case all he could do was silently ache, but the next time the curator led a gaggle of young things through the door and offered to let them have a closer look, I could tell the results wouldn’t be pretty.
I have been here the longest, despite not being the oldest. For a while I lay on Miss Fletcher’s desk in a padded box with the lid seldom on. I was a little faded and chipped, but my ruby red lips still shone, and my auburn hair still curled. Miss Fletcher couldn't resist me. Almost once a day she would gently lift me and hold me to her face. I would give her joy and the memory of music, flashes of rouged knees and diamanté buckles, giggles and dancing and a haze of gleeful abandonment. For a moment I was alive as we shared an exchange of desire and then, inevitably, she would be interrupted, or simply experience a surge of exhaustion, and I would be returned to my comfortable but quiet little box.
By the time Nuru arrived there were twelve of us masks, apparently blank and lifeless, however lifelike. We were all effective in our own ways, eliciting feelings of peace or bravery, wonder or lust. But the new fellow… He bled hunger into the room.
There were echoing footsteps. Miss Fletcher led a small group of students into the room and the ebony mask almost writhed with desire. I realised that this mask possessed something none of us had ever needed – the ability to lie.
Miss Fletcher practically flew to the new case, picking through her keys in a hurry to find the right one. I had never seen her so keenly agitated. She found the key, her hands shook as she pressed it into the lock, and she sighed as she opened the door.
“This,” she said proudly, “is Nuru. Who would like to – “
She didn't need to finish her sentence. Everyone’s hands shot into the air, but Miss Fletcher couldn't bear to part with him before pressing him to her face. I heard him whisper “fẹnuko mi olufẹ njiya” as she raised him to blink through his narrow watchful eye holes.
Her screaming started almost immediately, like a song going horribly wrong, a shocked wail becoming anguished shrieking. She pulled at him, but Nuru was part of her now, and he consumed her. Blood began to drip from him, running along his oval edges and dripping down Miss Fletcher’s rigid hands. Her screams had barely dimmed to husky dying croaks before the students were on her, wrenching the mask away, fighting to apply him to their own eager and deceived faces.
I have been here the longest, despite not being the oldest. For a while I lay on Miss Fletcher’s desk in a padded box with the lid seldom on. I was a little faded and chipped, but my ruby red lips still shone, and my auburn hair still curled. Miss Fletcher couldn't resist me. Almost once a day she would gently lift me and hold me to her face. I would give her joy and the memory of music, flashes of rouged knees and diamanté buckles, giggles and dancing and a haze of gleeful abandonment. For a moment I was alive as we shared an exchange of desire and then, inevitably, she would be interrupted, or simply experience a surge of exhaustion, and I would be returned to my comfortable but quiet little box.
By the time Nuru arrived there were twelve of us masks, apparently blank and lifeless, however lifelike. We were all effective in our own ways, eliciting feelings of peace or bravery, wonder or lust. But the new fellow… He bled hunger into the room.
There were echoing footsteps. Miss Fletcher led a small group of students into the room and the ebony mask almost writhed with desire. I realised that this mask possessed something none of us had ever needed – the ability to lie.
Miss Fletcher practically flew to the new case, picking through her keys in a hurry to find the right one. I had never seen her so keenly agitated. She found the key, her hands shook as she pressed it into the lock, and she sighed as she opened the door.
“This,” she said proudly, “is Nuru. Who would like to – “
She didn't need to finish her sentence. Everyone’s hands shot into the air, but Miss Fletcher couldn't bear to part with him before pressing him to her face. I heard him whisper “fẹnuko mi olufẹ njiya” as she raised him to blink through his narrow watchful eye holes.
Her screaming started almost immediately, like a song going horribly wrong, a shocked wail becoming anguished shrieking. She pulled at him, but Nuru was part of her now, and he consumed her. Blood began to drip from him, running along his oval edges and dripping down Miss Fletcher’s rigid hands. Her screams had barely dimmed to husky dying croaks before the students were on her, wrenching the mask away, fighting to apply him to their own eager and deceived faces.
Comments
Post a Comment