Say howdy to Clay!
He's a little bit down on his luck right now. Some bad career choices (who knew being a lifeguard required going IN to a pool of water?); some gambling debts (that roulette wheel is soooo fascinating!); and a series of feline floozies have left him high and dry. Homeless even.
Right now he's temping with Apprentice Kim. He's building his skills in reading, editing, and keyboard menacing.
He's one of several cats looking for more permanent employment.
Let's have a writing contest to give Clay some exposure!
The usual rules apply:
1. Write a story using 100 words or fewer.
2. Use these words in the story:
Henry
tablet
pit
fire
pug
**bonus points if you tell me how the words are related
3. You must use the whole word, but that whole word can be part of a larger word. The letters for the
prompt must appear in consecutive order. They cannot be backwards.
Thus: pit/pitbull is ok but pit/piety is not
4. Post the entry in the comment column of THIS blog post.
5. One entry per person. If you need a mulligan (a do-over) erase your entry and post again. It helps to work out your entry first, then post.
6. International entries are allowed, but prizes may vary for international addresses. The prize for this contest is NOT Clay now matter how clever your entry!
7. Titles count as part of the word count (you don't need a title)
8. Under no circumstances should you tweet anything about your particular entry to me. Example: "Hope you like my entry about Felix Buttonweezer!" This is grounds for disqualification.
8a. There are no circumstances in which it is ok to ask for feedback from ME on your contest entry. NONE. (You can however discuss your entry with the commenters in the comment trail...just leave me out of it.)
9. It's ok to tweet about the contest generally.
Example: "I just entered the flash fiction contest on Janet's blog and I didn't even get a lousy t-shirt"
10. Please do not post anything but contest entries. (Not for example "I love Felix Buttonweezer's entry!")
11. You agree that your contest entry can remain posted on the blog for the life of the blog. In other words, you can't later ask me to delete the entry and any comments about the entry at a later date.
12. The stories must be self-contained. That is: do not include links or footnotes to explain any part of the story. Those extras will not be considered part of the story.
Contest opens: 7:24am, Sat 3/10/18
Contest closes: 9am, Sun 3/11/18 DON'T FORGET THE TIME CHANGE THIS WEEKEND!!
If you're wondering how what time it is in NYC right now, here's the clock
If you'd like to see the entries that have won previous contests, there's an .xls spread sheet here http://www.colindsmith.com/TreasureChest/
(Thanks to Colin Smith for organizing and maintaining this!)
Questions? Tweet to me @Janet_Reid
Ready? SET?
Sorry, too late. Contest closed.
44 comments:
“Pita? You got a screw loose. Wonder bread? Forget it.”
“Okay, how about a wrap?”
“Ugh. You ask for a wrap, I think you're dense. It isn't able to stand up to the sauce.”
“What then? Rye?”
“R-rye!? Are you insane, man? This ain't corned beef. It's a meatball sub!”
“Then what, just an Italian roll?”
“Just? Just an Italian roll? It's a classic for a reason. It's perfect. And if I really want to do it right, I'll toast it.”
“Geez, you're crazy about this.”
“Crazy delicious.”
Henry “Clay” Cat, named after the statesman, stared at the tablet—the electronic kind, not the paper or clay kind. Clay was job searching. “It’s a tough job market, but the streets are no place for a fine feline like me.”
Potter. “Pug, mold, and fire clay? How would I get my paws clean? And the taste—yuck!"
Clay pit quarryman. “Sounds too manual labor. I’m looking for something catual.”
Babysitter. “Sitting is great. But babies are squirmy.”
The situation seemed bleak.
Revelation! “Self-employed lap sitter! Once people get a look at my handsome self, they’ll be fighting over me.”
**For bonus points: The words are all related to clay (Clay). Henry Clay was an American statesman. People used to write on clay tablets. A clay pit is a quarry or cave from which clay is extracted. To fire clay means to heat it, usually in a kiln, so that it hardens. To pug clay means to work it when wet to make it softer and easier to handle.
Henry is low tech. I again showed him how to access email on his tablet.
I turned back to my beer and he started to read them. Then I heard the tablet clatter to the floor. I turned back to him to see a fire climb from the pit of his stomach to his eyes. He growled and then turned pugilistic.
After punching me in the eye, he stomped out. I grabbed his tablet and saw the email. It was the announcement for Nancy’s wedding. I always considered their breakup as his biggest mistake. I guess he does too.
“I. GIVE. UP. Ugh!” I swat the journal off of the table then Ryu kick it into the fire pit. A single glare is all it takes to ignite its careworn cover. Eleven years of stabbing pens into paper is enough.
I refuse more heartache. No more. No more words. No more trenches.
Just the pit.
I watch until the singed pages are little more than ash, until the characters are nothing more than ghosts trapped in the smoke. I watch until the fire dies and my heart dies with it.
I watch.
And then I pick up a pen.
True story. I was visiting an orphanage in Volgograd, Russia. Dismal place. Crumbling concrete, exposed rebar. Possibly the ugliest building in the whole Motherland. To be honest, the trip was just a write-off. Donate some clothes, the deduction pays for my new Samsung tablet.
I didn't expect to linger.
Out back, a pigtailed girl crouched beside the firepit. She held two slices of sandwich meat. Her allotment for the day, I'm sure.
I heard mewling. Saw pug faces peeking over the lip of a cardboard box. "Henry," she said. "Don't be a pig."
I didn't expect to inquire about adopting.
My boxes are ready. They're piled high on the table. The removal van comes to a noisy halt.
One last look round. I envisage the room dressed in the new fabric of a fresh couple, their vitality disguising the rot buried in the layers underneath.
The one constant, and my only regret: the old fireplace. It gave me warmth while your arms were draped round another ... and another... and another. If only I could scoop it up and take it with me. Henry, ever the trusty pug, sniffs at the floorboards, pining; perhaps, he's thinking along similar lines.
5/5 stars – thank God for Edward!
I assumed the fuss about Amazon Alexa’s ‘creepy laugh’ was hyperbole, until it happened to me. Not that I can blame her. John Oliver was on particularly good form at the time.
The problem is, it’s catching. Henry Hoover’s got a pugilistic streak, and he’s pitted himself against Tabitha Tablet. He made a lunge for her while I was cleaning the stove; he missed, but almost started a fire. I had to separate them.
Fortunately, I’ve discovered the perfect solution. Edward Enforcer’s only $399 and knows just how to keep your AI in line.
All she knew was that she was not able to continue like this. The guilt. The sadness. The deep ugliness she had to keep hidden inside her.
She lifted the glass, gazed into the clear liquid. If I really drink this, she thought, my troubles will be over. All the shame and self-pity, gone.
She was scared, though. A little. That was to be expected. She wondered if it would hurt.
But her pain and misery outweighed her fear.
And so Marilyn Jekyll, distant descendant of Henry Jekyll, swallowed down her ancestor's serum.
They had come in packs.
Newfs from the sea. Dalmatians brandishing firebrands. Danes trampling the slow. Pit bulls bursting from alleys, fangs like knives. Border collies leaping over makeshift barricades.
Their leader, bearing the mystical tablet, surveyed the carnage. Admiral Von Puppington. He went by Henry now, but he hadn't shed the title.
"Now we're the masters. You'll lie at our feet. Wear the collars. Eat the kibble." He grinned, the way only a pug can. "You'll make fools of yourselves on YouTube, for our amusement." He stared thoughtfully at the cowering masses. "But... you'll still scratch our bellies."
Rose spilled her tea hearing Linnet’s frantic cries. The cat was hissing, spitting hellfire on the screened porch. Her tabletop basket held two sleeping kittens. Where was the spunky black and white?
The door was unlocked. Had the kitten pushed it open? Rose stumbled out, searching under the hydrangeas. She heard a plaintive mewling cry and ran towards the road. A car sped by.
She heard the cry again. The mailbox! She plucked out the frantic kitten.
Two shadows slipped into the woods. She saw Henry and Pug Pitts, ten-year-old hoodlums.
Rose brought the cats inside and locked the door.
“Get out!” she hisses, expelling saliva. Spittle on the tabletop. The air between us is oppressive, moist.
“It’s not what you think.” It’s worse than you think.
“I saw the texts.” Her face is an icon of ire. She reaches for the knife block, a pugilist, an assassin. I barely get between her and her weapon. “Out of the kitchen, Ryan, or…”
“Or what?”
“I’ll kill you. I swear.” Her hands reach around me, grasping. Mine fall to my side.
Nothing like a death threat to disintegrate love. Verbal hydrofluoric acid.
Always so melodramatic. “If that’s what you want.”
We were happy once. La vie en rose, everything moved slowly, easily. No worries, dining peacefully, swaying to the music.
Then he came. A real spitfire, knocking over a table, thank God it wasn't ours. Jumping, scratching, staring at us, splish-splash, making us nervous.
"He's puggy."
"You mean pudgy."
"No, puggy. It's either him or them and they were here first."
"I don't care, Henry stays."
{Window left open}
Peace reigns for weeks now. It must've been his ninth, no matter. For us, life goes swimmingly.
{Door opens}
"Look what I found, I'm calling him Clay."
Henry discovered the tablet in the fire pit. Strange markings covered its surface. He took it to his friend, Clay.
"It's Sumerian cuneiform," Clay said.
"Sumerian? The first civilization on Earth? What does it say?"
"You won't believe it," Clay said.
"Is it how they invented the wheel?"
"No."
"The plow? Writing?"
"Neither."
Henry gaped. "Dear God! It proves they really were created by Annunaki gods from outer space?"
"Afraid not." Clay cleared his throat. "Why did the chicken cross the road?"
"No," Henry said, as Clay continued.
"To escape the farting pug. Seems they even invented the first riddle."
When Ryan fired me, I called him a repugnant rapscallion. A table-thumping tramp. A hood, a heel, a hoodlum, and a pitiable putrid profligate poser. I told him he could take his wretched wastrel work and thrust it where the helioic sphere does not radiate its resplendent rays.
He told me to remove my ungrateful, unguent, ulcer of a body from his edifice of endeavor, and find myself an alternative avocation.
The conflagration in the refuse receptacle was an afterthought as I evacuated his smoldering premises.
I never really wanted to work for Roget in the first place. Bombastic boneheads.
She kindled a fire on tabletop mountain
Raising her hands
From the abundance of joy
Praising the gods
For the birth of her Henry
She kindled a fire on tabletop mountain
Raising her voice
From the deep ugliness of grief
Pleading with the gods
For the life of her Henry
She kindled a fire on tabletop mountain
Raising her fist
From the pit of despair
Cursing the gods
For the death of her Henry
She kindled a fire on tabletop mountain
Raising her eyes
From the wisdom of experience
Thanking the gods
For the gift of her Henry
Fireballs pitch towards Henry the Hirsute, Druid of the nine realms.
“Dowse them!” barked his pug familiar, Pippy.
He scrambled for dice and spell cards, seeking a defense.
“I cast the armpit of the unwashed!” His cry was punctuated by three dice rattling on the tabletop.
All ones.
Despairing, he looks to the dungeon master’s merciless eyes.
“The spell is cast, but it’s centered on you. Pippy yelps, scrabbling at his nose. He takes maximum damage. The noxious gasses suffocate you. As you faint, you see the fireballs fizzle out. You take ten damage and are immobilised for three turns.”
Clay studied the victim’s photos on his tablet. Fresh slobber still clung to the bristle-furred mug.
He hissed. The K-9’s had tagged the corpse wrong. Damned mutts couldn’t tell the difference between a pit bull and a pug. The mongrel wasn’t born this way; he’d been tossed under a truck. Henry would have kittens when he found out!
Nothing they could do though. The commissioner was dirty; the parrot would fire an intern once the K-9’s slipped her more crackers.
No. Clay would hunt the killer. He wasn’t a “00” for nothing.
Pugnacious means I’m aggressive and quick to fight.
Henry says my soul is a pit of fire that burns brighter than the tip of the Devil’s pecker. A prerequisite for this level of competition.
“I’m getting too old for this shit, Henry.”
“Table that nonsense, Dougie, you’re up.”
My body aches, but I have to work through the pain.
With grace and perfect form, I release and hold my pose statue still. My tight jeans a 7-10 split wide open. Championship throw. I stare the ball towards victory, and from behind flash my opponents a cheeky, crooked grin.
Dearest Husband,
If you find this, please know I did not go quietly. But the enemy I was pitted against was entrenched, formidable. Familiar.
Do not blame yourself, Henry. You worried about leaving us. You said business could wait. I insisted we were fine.
I do hope it brings you some peace to know the children will not suffer. They sleep like angels. The tablets worked. Sometimes to stop ugliness, one must do unthinkable things. Or so the voices tell me.
I must go now, my love. It is time to light the fire.
Your devoted wife,
Lydia
Me staring at iPad: “Dang, this one’s hard. Not able to put these words together at all. Reinforcement time! Guys?”
Henrietta bobs fluffy yellow head. “Mom’s the Little Red Hen. Rye’s my specialty, not riddles.”
Purple stegosaurus blubbers. “I’m in the hole of despair over this! Can’t help it!”
Sloth frowns. “Don’t add fuel to the flame, mate. If I read it s-u-p-e-r s-l-o-w, we’ll catch some clue?”
The little pekingese sits up. “Ug. Always overthinking things. It’s clearly just another way to torment writers.”
Me: “Gotta be obvious...”
[Basic live footage from my brain when problem solving after work.]
Henry saw himself through her eyes, repugnant, a spit of nothing. The matchmaker had brought them together, their parents had approved and both families had gathered in self-satisfied celebration. He had given her everything … wealth, status … and she had yielded nothing in return, continued to look down on him, her heart remaining a dead zone where he longed for fire. He had to laugh at that, not able to talk her round, he’d shut her up instead. His Corpse Bride. Silent. Obedient. The life partner he’d always wanted.
“He was shot with MY Martini-Henry rifle?” Robert Herbert III asked. Not whether Thomas Clay was okay. I shrugged slightly, head aching.
“A rifle’s missing from Clay’s collection. Cubby’s labeled ‘M-H Mk2.’” I’d learned of the men’s dispute.
“It’s mine, detective. I want it back.” Ironic. I wanted him talking. And not. Four tablets of aspirin in the acid pit of my stomach did nothing for my hangover.
“Found a .577 Snider cartridge. Near your home.” A lie. I’d brushed up on old British firearms.
“Bull!” the pugnacious man growled. But a flicker of concern crossed his face.
A war hero, like his Grandpa Henry.
Since Afghanistan, he’s only seen life
through a gun lens.
Repugnant windows of pain.
Buddies shattered with bombs.
Bloodied children dying at his hand.
His life spared. Why?
Anti-depressant tablets don’t help.
The Pathway Home sounds promising. A way out.
Worked for grandpa, anyway.
The GI money expires. He’ll need to cover his own housing.
Without a job, because who would hire a murderer?
Pathway? More like inauthentic hospitality.
Police and fire crews arrive at the blockaded building.
Henry, his body armor, and Veterans’ Home hostages lay among the dead.
He was only two. That's what I think of, when I miss Henry.
He was too young for a tablet. He should have been beside me, holding a marshmallow stick over the pit with his mama's careful hands on his. It was his first time camping.
He whined for it and I thought he'd be safer in the tent anyway, mesmerized by a screen. I thought I wouldn't have to watch him.
I thought far from the fire meant safe.
Why did he go down to the water?
Why did our pug know he was gone before I did?
How has my life been reduced to dumpster diving? A pit of despair.
My ears perk as Fire the pug and his gang enter the alley. Maybe they won't sniff me out.
No such luck. They growl and charge.
I explode out of the muck, splaying it everywhere. At the sidewalk, humans cringe out of my way.
I glance back and…Smash! into a teenage girl.
She shuts her tablet and picks me up. She's brave.
"Perfect! You're just what I need. What's your name?"
"Clay." Now drop me and run.
She smiles. "I knew you were special. Call me Henry."
Dear Liza,
There's a hole in my bucket.
Henry
Dear Henry,
I'll fix it. Swing by the stable tonight.
Liza
Liza,
I'm not driving a leaky bucket through atmo, babe.
Come to my hab.
Henry
Don't "babe" me, you repugnant bastard. That was one time only.
No house calls.
Liza
Such a spitfire! Love that about you. Among other... qualities. Meow.
I'll saunter over.
Hengry for More
Yee-ech. Offer retracted. You come at your peril.
L
Dear Liza,
There's a hole in my spleen. You'll hear from my lawyers.
Henry
Dear Henry,
It matches your bucket. Go to hell.
Liza
The tablets lay in Henry’s palm; one red, one blue. He’d always chosen red - honesty over oblivion. A hard choice; harder every day.
Swallowed, it would burn fire; the first bite of seemingly unending pain. His choice. Feeding Hell Wolves; more honest than babysitting fat, Earth Pugs.
Right?
Every day, he’d be ushered to the pits. The slavering creatures would bay, eager to feast. Mouthful after mouthful; seemingly unending agony. But honest agony. Right?
He frowned. The blue pill, today. Oblivion, over honesty.
It burned fire going down. His keeper entered, grinning maniacally, as the Hell Wolves started baying.
Henry slid a finger over his raised scar covered by the rose tattoo. Pretty white lies hid cheap ugly truths. But he wasn't one for pity, giving or receiving. The eyes of the girl across the table though told a different story.
She stared at his arm.
"Was in a house fire," Henry explained.
She continued to stare.
"Nature likes to leave her mark," he joked.
She grasped his hand with one of hers, squeezing it. She rolled up her long sleeve shirt with the other. Cigarette burns dotted her skin.
She gave a sad smile.
"So do people."
9:22. Time for his daily dose of her. Hell with a side of eggs.
The place has good home-fries. He likes them hot. Overdone, edgy. Exactly like her.
Coffee’s blacker than tar, served up with a smirk. “Say when.”
A grin. “When. Rye, two sunny side up.”
Ugly, left up. But he likes them that way. Split open and messy. He doesn’t know why.
She retreats with a smile. He returns it, warmth without fire, his belly a pit.
He picks up his fork. Waits for his eggs. In the meantime, he fills up on his redhead waiting table two.
Her tablet’s face scarred from an endless stream of swipes left, Janet readied her emotional white flag yet again. "Gustav" signaled an end to the Gs. She pressed on.
And then...
Henry!
Six feet even. Adorable pug nose. Cleft chin. Sandy hair. Clearly modeled on Brad Pitt. The brown eyes wouldn't do. "They have to be blue," she said to no one, her de facto companion of 25 years. The "Kids? Maybe" package seemed worth a few extra bucks.
With a satisfied tap Janet submitted the order, lit a fire, poured two glasses of Cabernet, and waited for the delivery.
And the connection is, Victor "PUG" HENRY was the main character in The Winds Of War. He was a soldier in World War II, so he would have come under FIRE, and dug a PIT to stay safe. His medicine, he preferred in TABLET form, and...
OK, I got nothin'.
“Stop the presses, Henry. I've been writing like my pants are on fire and I've got the best entry for the contest.”
“Well aren't you the pithy one, Henrietta.”
“No, I mean it, Henry. STOP THE PRESSES!”
“I'm not able to do that, Henrietta. You control the lever.”
“What? Stop. Ugh! You're killing me.”
“Is that what you want? Why didn't you say so in the beginning.”
“Say what?”
“That you want me to kill you.”
“I never said that.”
“Yes, my dear, you did.”
BANG
And another issue's laid to rest.
“You do understand God’s reward for representing me?” asked the Devil.
Henry remembered the contract etched upon the stone tablet. “Something called . . . ‘Spiritual Disembowelment?’”
“Decapitation. He’s always had a flair for drama.” The Devil’s grin was genial, his eyes pitiless. “Yet, here you are. Why should I trust you, counselor? Why not some repugnant schmuck from Hellfire, Brim & Stone? Those boys are winners. You saw OJ’s trial.”
“Winning isn’t enough. You want the world on your side, the story changed.”
The Devil leaned in. “And what do you want?”
“To be the one who writes it.”
First, Henry dug himself a pit in the dirt floor. “Neighbors oughta thank me,” he grumbled to Pug the dog. Then flamelets licked the proffered newspapers—endangered now that everyone had tablets and phones—and gulped the rest of the nearby debris, snapping like the dog at dinner, but never satiated, more like the man. When the front room was ablaze, he and the dog headed for the kitchen… only the sliding glass door was boarded up. After pushing Pug out the dog door, Henry faced the fire and settled in to enjoy one last banquet.
Henry was in a bad way. He was out pounding the pavement yet again—ducking in and out and looking for any clue of his elusive target. Where was Franny with that electronic tablet thingy she always carried in the pit of her oversized purse? He could use that GPS about now.
Time was running out. He had to find the target before a potential leak became an uncontrollable torrent. Turning the corner he spied the target dead ahead. Just in the nick of time, Henry the pug trotted over to the shiny, red fireplug and completed his mission.
First scotch, then rye.
Neither helps.
I take another look at the note. The handwriting is still mine.
I found it by the fireplace, a few crisp words announcing my intention to kill myself.
The thought of dying is repugnant, but my other self must feel differently.
I used to pity her suffering, now I despise her selfishness. I wish she would kill herself—if only she wouldn’t take me with her. I hope she knows that.
#
Pills lay spilled across the tabletop.
I claw at the bottle. What does the label say?
Anti-psychotics.
K-9 rounds up the usual suspects. Enters names into her tablet.
Jimmie Three Paws. Muttley Crue. Their leader, Great Catsby. And the new cat on the block, Fifty Shades of Clay.
As an afterthought—the human, Mrs. Henry.
“Start barking,” K-9 commands.
“Heyyyy,” Catsby purrs.
Hours later, pugnacious Chief stomps in. “Confession?”
K-9 shakes her muzzle.
“When’s this end?” Jimmie asks.
Chief nods at Mrs. Henry. “Ain’t over till the cat lady sings.”
“What’s the crime?”
Clay thinks, erecting a statue in a dog park.
“Vandalism,” Chief spits.
Jimmie shuffles three paws. Swallows. “I thought it was a fire hydrant.”
No news is often good, but I worried when I didn’t hear from Henry. After all, I’d sent him off with my car, my credit card, and my pugnacious little sister.
“She’s a spitfire,” he claimed, when he finally called.
“Did she find the money yet?” Sometimes Henry had trouble staying on point.
When they returned a week later, Henry shared, “We saw Elvis.”
My sister squealed, “We got married!”
That wasn’t in the script, but I was pretty sure it was on my tab. “Let’s celebrate,” I said.
I buried them out back. What happens in Vegas, stays there.
Mama threw everything into the fire out back. Used tissues and coughed on, spit drooled pillowcases. The virus lived everywhere, she said.
We slipped out at night and roamed for supplies, piled everything on the kitchen table, then scrubbed our hands in bleach.
Never enough, though. Hunger gnawed at us like rats at the dump. Ugly, persistent hunger.
Till we met Henry the Hoarder. Fifty, fat and fearful, but no match for Celeste. Eighteen going on Marilyn Monroe, she charmed the canned goods right out of him, eyes gleaming above her protective mask.
Well fed, we withstood the 2018 pandemic.
Publishing intern by day…
Black Panther by night!
Who would ever suspect pitiful milquetoast Clay, always hiding under chairs and slinking about the office, afraid of water and pug dogs?
But when the sun went down and a tsunami of sin struck Gotham City…
Hiss!
Claw!
Me-ow!
No one could stop the Black Panther.
So he’d play along until they fired him.
Purr.
Pretend to enjoy traipsing on tablets and cluttering keyboards.
Even reading queries, like the one he’d napped on today.
No O’Henry, that author, but still…
The Secret Life of Walter Kitty had distinct possibilities.
After moving a few months ago, Henry had started sleepwalking. Now it was getting worse. The day he woke curled in front of the fire, just about every hair he had singed, he went to see his doctor — but she directed him to a wreck of a colonial across town.
Outside, an old woman sat at a small table. “There, let’s see you up close.” Her scratchy voice was a command.
Henry was nervous— he couldn’t help it — but obeyed.
For a moment she studied him, then the pronouncement came.
“The curse of the werepug. It's struck again.”
I will not be defeated. My pugnacious spirit will defeat these robotic creatures.
For years, Writers changed lives by leaving their thoughts, dreams, and inspirations upon me. Their words fired hope, laughter, and tears into the minds of the young and old.
My followers will miss my smell and roughness between their fingers. They know I will never die and need a recharge.
Despite this ever growing technology world, I will never go out of style just like that song “Henry the Eight.” Watch out tablets. I am irreplaceable. I am timeless. I am a book.
See, I been framed. I am a pug. This has all earmarks of the Duchess. She would totally set that thumbs-wielding, pant-less wonder on fire to capture his soul.
Yeah, his cats helped. Look Henry, I nap professionally. I couldn’t have done it.
A cat move all the way. You know what I’m talking about. The queen. She did not like his pitch. And how long do you think she could afford to pay his tab? Let me tell you what. The Duchess is taking no chances. She is keeping that queen happy. Why? You do not need to know.
(Minutes late but I had to post it even if ineligible. )
Anne is standing at Henry's bedside, bright, fresh and--whole. Head downcast in penitence. "My lord," she says, "my love."
Henry's breath is taken, as ever, by her loveliness. Her heat.
"You killed me," she says, flatly, expressionless as the clay tablets before Moses inscribed them with the Word.
"It cannot be," Henry says. She must be an impostor, this unscarred girl. Yet his dog sleeps at the fireside, not even lifting its pug nose. Some watchdog.
"It's no matter," she says, and opens her--
Not eyes.
Black pits. Bottomless. Hungry. Anne always made him feel she was starving for him.
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