The Grimscribe's Puppets by Joseph S. Pulver Sr., Simon Strantzas, Michael Cisco, Gemma Files, Richard Gavin, Darrell Schweitzer, Allyson Bird, Livia Llewellyn, Joseph S. Pulver
Authors: Joseph S. Pulver Sr., Simon Strantzas, Michael Cisco, Gemma Files, Richard Gavin, Darrell Schweitzer, Allyson Bird, Livia Llewellyn, Joseph S. Pulver
Tags: General, Literature & Fiction, Horror, Short Stories, Genre Fiction, Anthologies & Literary Collections, Anthologies
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...
A: ...
A: [suddenly terrified] You look like ...!
The Human Moth
By Kaaron Warren
Behold the human moth. Drawn to the light, antennae out and ears alert, she can’t stay inside on a night like this.
The human moth emerged covered in thin, downy hair. She has a photograph of herself newborn; she seems to shine in the bright lights of the hospital. Her mother’s arms, white, skinny, not hairy at all, encircle her. The human moth always loved the bright lights. Lying in her cot and later, on her bed, blinking at the light, screaming if it was turned off. She didn’t like it low, didn’t like it dimmed. She liked it so bright it would make your eyes water if they were weak.
Her mother was the same; obsessed with the light. Her father wore his hat over his eyes, tilting his head back if he wanted to see. He never left the house. “Whoodhireyou,” her mother called him.
They took in foster children, for your own good, she was told, because Mummy’s a mess down there and there won’t be any more like you, and did he say thank god for that? The human moth’s hearing was very acute.
One by one they moved in, edging her out of her big, bright bedroom. Making noise and mess, taking up space. Making fun of her because of her rounded stomach. Maybe there was a ball of hair in there. She sucked her hair all rat’s tailed and wet.
Maybe there was a twin in there. Teeth and mutated bone and tissue. She always wanted a real sister.
Maybe it was because she ate fabric. Strands of wool, pieces of material.
They made fun of the way she ate, little nibbling bites like a moth.
By the time she was eight, there were a dozen children living in her house. Her mother spent her days shouting and the children, all ages, cooked and ate and shat and messed, they went to school when the human moth did not. The more children moved in, the smaller the human moth’s cocoon grew, and the darker it got, the further from the light. She moved into the basement, your own special place , and they kept all the old clothes down there, the bags of mothball-smelling charity clothes, donated for all those dear children. She burrowed in, made her cocoon. She took every candle in the house, every match, and pretended not to hear when they were called for.
The other children teased her about her hairiness but it wasn’t until she set up her cocoon in the basement and covered the wall with pictures of moths that they called her that.
She pretended to hate it so they wouldn’t stop.
Outside the basement window a large lilac bush blocked the sun. She loved the smell and she grew used to the taste on those nights when she was hungry.
Her mother didn’t like the lilac but she didn’t take the bush away. Her mother said, “It’ll turn your flaps purple, just watch, make a mess of you down there if you’re not careful.”
The human moth never went to school. Her parents kept her safe at home where only her foster brothers and sisters could laugh at her.
Her parents weren’t cruel but they weren’t kind. They taught her nothing about cooking or thinking, they only taught her about eating and about the light. They taught her about survival and that some have to die so that others can live. They made her sing the babies to sleep, read to the other children till her throat was raw. Some nights she wished she could sew her mouth shut, like a normal moth so that she wouldn’t have to sing anymore. Her voice was weak and she didn’t always remember the words, would sit with eyes blind, mind blank, while the children screamed with delight at her stupidity.
“You be nice to the poor little souls, they’ve had a hard life,” her mother said. As if the human moth was the luckiest girl on earth.
In her cocoon, she watched the moths around the streetlight. They were free, but they were obsessed, and they flew together, they made no sound, they were simple in their needs and wants. They didn’t eat; they had no mouths. They knew when they would
A: ...
A: [suddenly terrified] You look like ...!
The Human Moth
By Kaaron Warren
Behold the human moth. Drawn to the light, antennae out and ears alert, she can’t stay inside on a night like this.
The human moth emerged covered in thin, downy hair. She has a photograph of herself newborn; she seems to shine in the bright lights of the hospital. Her mother’s arms, white, skinny, not hairy at all, encircle her. The human moth always loved the bright lights. Lying in her cot and later, on her bed, blinking at the light, screaming if it was turned off. She didn’t like it low, didn’t like it dimmed. She liked it so bright it would make your eyes water if they were weak.
Her mother was the same; obsessed with the light. Her father wore his hat over his eyes, tilting his head back if he wanted to see. He never left the house. “Whoodhireyou,” her mother called him.
They took in foster children, for your own good, she was told, because Mummy’s a mess down there and there won’t be any more like you, and did he say thank god for that? The human moth’s hearing was very acute.
One by one they moved in, edging her out of her big, bright bedroom. Making noise and mess, taking up space. Making fun of her because of her rounded stomach. Maybe there was a ball of hair in there. She sucked her hair all rat’s tailed and wet.
Maybe there was a twin in there. Teeth and mutated bone and tissue. She always wanted a real sister.
Maybe it was because she ate fabric. Strands of wool, pieces of material.
They made fun of the way she ate, little nibbling bites like a moth.
By the time she was eight, there were a dozen children living in her house. Her mother spent her days shouting and the children, all ages, cooked and ate and shat and messed, they went to school when the human moth did not. The more children moved in, the smaller the human moth’s cocoon grew, and the darker it got, the further from the light. She moved into the basement, your own special place , and they kept all the old clothes down there, the bags of mothball-smelling charity clothes, donated for all those dear children. She burrowed in, made her cocoon. She took every candle in the house, every match, and pretended not to hear when they were called for.
The other children teased her about her hairiness but it wasn’t until she set up her cocoon in the basement and covered the wall with pictures of moths that they called her that.
She pretended to hate it so they wouldn’t stop.
Outside the basement window a large lilac bush blocked the sun. She loved the smell and she grew used to the taste on those nights when she was hungry.
Her mother didn’t like the lilac but she didn’t take the bush away. Her mother said, “It’ll turn your flaps purple, just watch, make a mess of you down there if you’re not careful.”
The human moth never went to school. Her parents kept her safe at home where only her foster brothers and sisters could laugh at her.
Her parents weren’t cruel but they weren’t kind. They taught her nothing about cooking or thinking, they only taught her about eating and about the light. They taught her about survival and that some have to die so that others can live. They made her sing the babies to sleep, read to the other children till her throat was raw. Some nights she wished she could sew her mouth shut, like a normal moth so that she wouldn’t have to sing anymore. Her voice was weak and she didn’t always remember the words, would sit with eyes blind, mind blank, while the children screamed with delight at her stupidity.
“You be nice to the poor little souls, they’ve had a hard life,” her mother said. As if the human moth was the luckiest girl on earth.
In her cocoon, she watched the moths around the streetlight. They were free, but they were obsessed, and they flew together, they made no sound, they were simple in their needs and wants. They didn’t eat; they had no mouths. They knew when they would
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