MicroHorror

Course we don’t make the sacrifice in October no more, sir. It’s enough that someone steps up to the flayin’ table. Now it’s still few that can take on all this… worldly care, mind, but no point to bloodshed.

Over there? Jim, from back in ‘54. Probably live longer than any of us. Course we only had the helmet back then, no fiber, no worms.

Last year any of us was really scared, y’know. Now there’s them who don’t remember what it’s like. Except the goat, I reckon.

Monday, I ate hope. Swirled it around empty sockets and washed it down to rot. Gave a little back.

This found me, you know that, all moon-faced and fat. Came on with blood and mud and boxes and breaking, turned me. Like a trick. Look at me now.

So please don’t touch our face. It’s flat and hard and brand, brand new and I had to cut too much to make it fit.

Look what you’ve done. Give me a tissue, love.

Please don’t take it off.

Please don’t,

no,

sweet honey