I’ll be writing daily from now until Halloween
Category: writing
Covers
It was a simple but clever display, Marsha thought. A dozen sculptures, all hollow, made of cloth and glue. Each looked like it was fabric draped over a famous sculpture – the kind of works the museum could never dream of housing.
It was a popular display too. People enjoyed guessing which sculpture was meant to be underneath. Marsha’s favourite guess was from the middle aged man who insisted to his teenage daughter that the outline of Rodin’s ‘The Thinker’ was one of those Ronald McDonald sculptures they used to put on benches.
There was concern about damage from the public. Being hollow, the sculptures were fragile and very light. They were also unsteady: the artist gave them uneven bases, where the fabric did not quite reach the ground. This let the audience see that there was nothing underneath, but meant that some were a little wobbly.
Marsha was locking up that night. She collected her purse from the office, then walked through the gallery to the exit. She held her keys in her hand – Marsha’s manager already locked the doors an hour ago when she turned the main lights out. Marsha had stayed behind to count the till and close up the gift shop. In the dim light from the front door and the exit signs, walking through the room of draped figures felt like passing a ballroom of frozen ghosts.
Entering the room, Marsha felt something was wrong.
Halfway through, she realised what the problem was.
She continued at the same pace, trying not to let any outward signs show. She forced herself to hum, rather than hyperventilate or cry out.
Trembling, she unlocked the front door, looking at her reflection to see if anything approached her from behind. Once she was outside and the door was locked again, Marsha bent down and pretended to tie up a zippered boot.
There were now 13 sculptures – one more than there should be. And from her low vantage point, Marsha could see there was nothing under any of them. Someone must have snuck in their own work, she deduced.
Now that she knew it wasn’t an intruder hiding under a sheet, Marsha stood up and looked more carefully. She had to press her face against the glass, cupping her hands around her face to block out the streetlights.
Scanning the familiar shapes, Marsha frowned. It was obvious immediately, because it was so plain. Slightly shorter than the others, it was an outline of a person standing straight, with their arms at their sides. A less-skilled copycat, then. Not the artist adding a late contribution.
Marsha got her phone out of her purse to take a photo. Looking through the screen, she gasped. It looked closer.
Looking up from the phone, she was certain it was. The sculpture was now placed at the edge of the entry carpet.
Marsha took one step back. The figure took one step forward.
Marsha ran, and did not look back to see if it followed.
The next morning there were twelve sculptures again, and Marsha did not offer to lock up for the duration of the exhibition.
Direction
Ethan was immediately obsessed with the ballerina. He sat too far back to make out her features, but her fluid movements, weightless leaps and unceasing smile reached him from across the theatre.
Rose was delighted that he had enjoyed the show, as he had been so reluctant to attend when she suggested it. She laughed when he approached the ticket booth to purchase tickets for the next night’s performance. She stopped when he purchased only one.
Ethan hardly noticed Rose’s swift withdrawal from him. He only wanted to see her.
The programme had only her first name: Marion.
The next night, Ethan sat as close to the front as possible, waiting for the lights to dim before darting forward four rows to place himself in an empty seat in the front row.
His fear of being ousted was immediately forgotten when Marion glided onto the stage. Ethan was still not quite able to see her face clearly. Though as close as possible, it seemed that the orchestra pit pushed the front row back further than normal. Still, her smile was apparent to all, her movements in perfect tempo.
The only annoyance to Ethan was that some member of the orchestra was using a metronome. The clicking was faint, but noticeable in the lulls.
After the performance, Ethan joined the dozens of fans waiting at the doors of the theatre for the Marion to sign autographs and greet her fans. A cheer erupted when she appeared at a balcony above them, smiling as an attendant worriedly kept her from the edge. She stood only at the edge of the doorway, the light behind her crafting a perfect silhouette. She even waved perfectly, turned her gaze to each person below.
Ethan gasped when she looked at him. He knew it was different than it was for anyone else. Years from now, he knew she would recall seeing him for the first time. She would laugh about gazing at him a moment longer than all the others and sigh as she spoke about knowing he was the one.
He just had to give her the chance.
It took weeks to learn the choreography of the theatre itself. What is seen on stage is only a fraction of the machine hidden behind sets and curtains. But Ethan was patient. He learned who did not pay attention and who could be paid to lack attention. He learned which hallways went to the dressing rooms, then learned that Marion’s room was next to the producer’s office.
Ethan would save her from that impropriety, he decided. The producer, from what he saw, kept busy. He was always in the rafters, demanding lighting and any hanging props be moved.
Ethan did not see Marion in that time, except on stage and at the balcony attached to her room. He decided that he would need to approach her before her performance, and before she was somehow transported past her fans without being spotted.
As he approached the door, the producer was in the rafters, dealing with a light Ethan had shifted.
It wasn’t locked, as though Marion had known he’d need to enter quietly. He wondered if she was already packed, waiting to be saved.
He found her asleep at her vanity. She had fallen forward as though modelling sleep. Ethan called her name softly. Marion remained still.
Ethan knew what to do. He walked forward confidently and embraced her.
As Ethan wrapped his arms around the hunched figure, two things happened in unison: the bell calling for the audience go take their seats rang, and Ethan realised something was wrong. The arms under his did not yield. No gasp or breath escaped the body he compressed. Her hair was immaculate, yet he felt loose hairs like spider webs across his skin.
Over the pealing bell, Ethan heard the quiet chorus of ticks as Marion’s joints tightened and she began to stand. What he thought were gossamer hairs tightened around him. Strings pulled Marion to a standing position, straining with the extra weight of Ethan for a moment. Then the pieces fell away from her.
Marion’s painted smile never faltered, and her glass eyes never blinked as she walked to the stage. She would not understand the horror at her dripping form. It was not what she was made for.
As he lay bleeding on the floor, Ethan knew that that he should not have looked so closely at perfection.
The Princess Bride
Needs
It’s incredible what can change in a person the moment they become a parent. For Carla, she found that nothing about her baby seemed to disgust her.
Spit up, wet nappies, drool, even blow-outs were addressed quickly. Things that would have made her gag were now everyday jobs. After all, her baby needed her.
She fed him on demand. The suckling sounds which would horrify her from an adult mouth were endearing. As he grew and tried new foods, Carla experimented with all kinds of purees. Bananas, which never failed to make her queasy, were his favourite for a while. She could get through mashing them into a horrid sludge by imagining his gummy smile.
As he grew even larger, she found he enjoyed other things she would have once thought distasteful. But when it was all he would eat, she made sure he had it.
A staunch vegetarian, she learned to cook meat.
A lifelong adherent to food safety guidelines, she cooked it rarer and rarer.
A pacifist, she began to bring him fresh, dripping meat.
When he was finally able to verbalise his needs, Carla carried out the job she’d been avoiding, certain she couldn’t stomach it. As she stood over the stranger, dripping knife in hand, she was surprised how easily she could now see the body as just another task in an endless rota.
After all, her baby needed to be fed.
Two stars
⭐⭐
This recipe just didn’t work for me. I followed everything exactly, thought I had to convert the measurements into cups since my measuring cups don’t show millilitres.
The only reason I can think of that mine didn’t work is that I used egg for the binding agent. I was worried about it boiling over before I could put the blood in, but I know I read they work the same.
The demon I summoned only appears in my dreams. He shows me all the ways I could die the next day while laughing. Two stars, since I guess it’s another way to outlive my enemies.
Next time I’ll try a different recipe to summon a vengeance demon.
Two Sentence Stories (part 23)
Emma was furious that her father had remarried so soon after her mother’s death. She had put so much work into making the last one look like an accident
Terry was sure his ex wouldn’t be upset that he’d moved into the house across the street. He’d certainly paid the plastic surgeon enough.
Eerily, eerily, eerily, eerily
The ever-growing song I sing to my son, to amuse myself:
Row, row, row your boat
Gently down the stream
Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily,
Life is but a dream.
Row, row, row your boat
Right across the lake
If you see the Loch Ness monster
don’t forget to quake
Row, row, row your boat
Beside the highway
If you see Fresno Nightcrawlers
don’t forget to bray
Row, row, row your boat
gently down the river
If you see Bigfoot tracks
don’t forget to shiver
Row, row, row your boat
right across the sea
if you hear a siren sing
don’t forget to flee
Row, row, row your boat
under the moonlight
If you see the Mothman flutter
it’s time to say goodnight
The Letter
Luke tried to make every birthday the best day he could for Sasha. It wasn’t easy after her mother’s passing, but he did his best to keep distract her from who was missing. It never worked. Every birthday ended the same: with a letter.
One letter from Sarah for every year her daughter grew up without her. A handwritten expression of love, grief, pride and hopes. Who she imagined her daughter would be at this age, age-appropriate advice, and stories from the few years they’d had together.
It didn’t matter if they were surrounded by friends and relatives, out all day or even on a holiday, Sasha would get her letter. She used to ask Luke to read it to her when she was too young, and she still passed the sealed envelope to him as part of the tradition.
Every year, Luke forced his voice to stop shaking as he read. He tried not cry at details only Sarah knew about their lives together. He read it loudly in order to drown out Sarah’s narration in his mind, the letter perfectly matching her mannerisms.
Luke dreaded the day Sasha moved out and spent a birthday without him there to read it to her. He had an equal fear that she would sooner find out how her mother had died.
It had been sudden and unexpected. It had left Sarah no way to say goodbye to her husband and young child.
But every year, the letter appeared under Sasha’s pillow.
Dad
Adam was scared about getting caught. He knew graffiti was wrong, but it was important to him to add the name to the wall.
He’d stuck behind after the tour guide described it. It was a list of everyone who had died on the temple’s grounds, whose souls were believed to remain there in eternal service. It was considered an honour to be so dedicated, the guide had explained.
Finished scratching in the name with his room key, Adam checked the shallow marks to make sure it was legible, then caught up with his mother, holding her sweaty hand. It was too warm to be wearing long sleeves, but she needed to hide the fresh bruises. His father walked ahead of them silently, begrudging them this tour as another apology.
Being young, Adam did not yet understand the difference between cause and effect. He understood that everyone listed on that wall died in the temple. He did not understand that the names were written after.
He watched his father swear as he stumbled and hoped he’d been clear enough.
“dad”
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