Four writers for the price of one blog
Bric-a-Brac ♠ a Nightmare and Vision by Redbud
“Are you punctilious?” she was asked. “Are you responsible?” Most importantly. “Are you mindful?”
“Mindful?” she asked.
“Yes,” said the stern woman interviewing her, “are you mindful?”
“I’m sure I do not understand your question.”
“Are you distract-able?” asked the woman. “Do you put your mind to the task to which you are assigned, or does your mind wander airy-fairy wheresoever it will. That is what I am asking you, young lady.”
“No, Mam,” said the girl, lying.
When the girl arrived at the strange and vast estate, she found unopened boxes, dusty shelves and mysterious crates half opened. Other girls had come and gone. One by one they had vanished.
“What a strange collection!” she thought to herself.
In no time at all she began to wonder at what the owner, or owners had been like. She began to open a crate, full of curiosity. After all, she thought to herself, I must catalog all of these. But the crate was troubled by twine. She would need a knife or scissors to open the crate. Then she saw a bonzai tree, not quite dead. ‘I must water that!’ – she thought, and turned.
When she turned. A presence stopped her. An arm reached around her slim waist and pressed, a white gloved palm flat against her abdomen. She looked behind her and would have screamed, but the nightmarish vision stopped her voice. A ghostly white face, halo’d by orange hair, glared at her with a knowing smile. He wore a coat and pants that were more like a shapeless and depthless blackness. His other hand, also gloved, matter-of-factly pulled her pantaloons to her knees. From there, they fell to her ankles. He lifted her skirt from behind. He pushed down the waist of his pants and a grotesque cock, white and erect, lifted like a hook from his groin.
She had never seen an erect cock before, but she was chastened by fright, and a knowing understanding, older than herself, that did not resist when he bent her over, did not resist when the palm at her belly moved upward over the thickening knot of her nipple. The same instinct hooked her spine and offered her vulnerably to the grotesque cock behind her, so much larger than anything she had imagined. It pressed, parted, and entered he. Her mouth opened. One ankle freed itself from her pantaloons. She lifted her leg, knee bent with strain, as as her slender waist was filled. Her mouth opened. How deeply could such a thing go inside her? Her questioning gaze was fixed by the Scarecrow’s glare. She exhaled and waited, one hand on the crate in front of her, waited and submitted.
Afterward, she pulled up her pantaloons and pushed down her dress.
The scarecrow was gone. The soil in the banzai pot was newly damp and leaves grew with a supernatural unfolding. A new crate had appeared. She knew what was inside. Pieces of her being. In all the other crates were the pieces, memories and lives of a hundred other girls and women. She would return. She was already lost.
She would give him more pieces of her self, the bric-a-brac of her soul, if only the creature would fill the darkness it had left in her womb, the liquid emptiness, the depthless shadow.