Drabble Friday June 5th

Sorry, I’ve been busy, as usual. Here are Drabble pieces though, as promised. All a hundred words, exactly. Happy reading!

The Sculptor

Her arm was severed at the elbow four years to the day her car careened over the embankment. “At least it’s only your right hand,” Mother said. “You can still sculpt.” Teri dug the nails of her left hand into the soft clay, creating a horrific face. The right eye welded shut, plastic nose a tad too pointy for reality, as if it were made from plastic and borrowed thigh skin. She looked up from her work and into the mirror to check the details. She stabbed a hole in her clay cheek.  At least it’s only my right face.

imagesThe Typist

Tap! Tap! Tap! Adam smashed the antique keys of the storekeeper’s typewriter, writing a letter to God about his dissatisfaction with humanity. “And therefore,” he typed, furiously and for so long that his fingertips bled, “You must, this very minute, deliver us from this curse of knowledge!” Ding! He looked at the keys, stained red, sticky, and slow to return to their original positions. Each minute of each day for what felt like eternity, he had written such a letter to God, begging for reprieve.  Damn that Eve. Damn the apple. “Dear God,” he began again.

The Tree Killer

Marilyn pedaled around the old oak tree on her brand-new tricycle. She’d ridden all day, carving a circle around the tree to mark her territory. Grandma said stop, but Marilyn didn’t listen. Round and round the tree she rode, shiny black tires butchering the grass beneath. The tree swayed its branches in warning but she wasn’t deterred. The tree swung harder, slapped her across the face with its leaves. She pedaled faster. Determined. Thunderous noise roared above. She soldiered on. Slaughtering.  Rumbling grew louder as a shadow enveloped her. A giant branch smashed down upon her. The living grass cheered.

untitledThe Hysterical Pregnancy

Five months into Allie’s pregnancy, Dr. Mason informed her there was no fetus. She viewed the ultrasound picture of an empty gray-scale sack. “Screw your tests,” she said. “I’m carrying a child.” Doctor Mason patted her hand. Month six, the baby kicked. Month seven, a tiny hand pushed against her from the inside. Month eight, constant movement convinced her that life grew within. On delivery day, blood and urine tests still reported lack of human life. The doctor bullied her. “It’s in your head.”  Two hours later, a creature akin to a goat ripped from her to start His reign.

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