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 Page A
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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die and how, and the pain of starvation would be sad for them because it was the end, but it was also inevitable. She thought there would be a certain comfort in that.
When she could capture them, she liked the feel of moths across her palm. Liked the fine powder dust they left behind, far finer than talc. She wished she could find powder as fine.
The human moth watched the babies being powdered, the glaze-eyed concentration on her mother’s face. Her mother ate talc powder by the spoonful, and she fed it to the human moth too, but never the others. When the human moth complained of her painful lungs and stomach, her mother fed her more. “It’ll fill you up,” her mother said, “and it won’t make you fat. Fatter. It won’t make you any more roly poly than you are now,” and she poked the human moth’s stomach to make the children laugh. “Nothing like the sound of a child’s laugh,” she said, glaring at the human moth for not joining in.
The human moth imagined the powder working its way through her skin, making her insides smell like lilac as well.
Her mother loved talcum powder. The human moth knew when her parents needed privacy. Her father appeared carrying a bottle of baby powder. He would shake it like a castanet, come on baby, and her mother would follow him and shut the door after her.
Her mother’s skin was scaly and scratchy and she came out in the morning looking like a ghost. Head to toe, runnelled talcum powder. Naked. “Don’t stand there with your mouth flapping open,” her mother said.
Her mother had no self-control. Her father always said that when they found her folded around a wine bottle. The human moth was the one to clean it up. He wouldn’t.
As the children began to leave, to grow up and move out, her parents made their plans. They would put her in a place, a home, they would lock her up and they would go away, because, her mother said, they had not lived a life at all, but instead they had sacrificed for their little girl so that she would want for nothing.
She wanted for everything.
Out of respect for her parents, after she smothered them she stretched them out like moths collected. Down in the basement her father had nails and hammers, he was a handyman but he never helped her.
It was exciting to her, seeing them like that. She was too terrified to speak to the police when they eventually knocked at the door, but it was clear, it was obvious to all, that an animal had done this, a hardened criminal, and that the human moth should be given all the privacy to grieve that she needed.
It was lonely without them, but it was nice not to have to open her mouth.
She lived alone in the big house until the failure of the lights. She had medical texts to read, and the Field Guide to Moths. She had cut out most of the moth pictures already but she liked to memorise the names.
She tried not to eat because moths don’t. But she got so hungry. She had no willpower. So she pretended to be a silkworm, eating enough to last the transformation. Most moths live off the fat stored in their bodies. She couldn’t live off fat, or off textiles.
She ate tinned food, ate it cold. Beetroot, tuna, pineapple. Baked beans, spaghetti, mini franks. Her mother was terrified the food would run out with all those children, then the children left and the parents died and all the tins were left. If a meal was slightly tainted from waiting for so long to be eaten, she ate it stirred through with lilac. She bought the bush inside and kept it by the window, where it flourished.
She kept the lights burning all the time. Every light in every room. This for a very long time because she was terrified that she would not find the switch in the dark. There was no one to tell her to turn the lights off.
Then…failure. Her power went and there was no light. She had candles and torches, but she knew they wouldn’t last long. The candles would burn down and the torches run out of power.
So she had to leave.
When she could capture them, she liked the feel of moths across her palm. Liked the fine powder dust they left behind, far finer than talc. She wished she could find powder as fine.
The human moth watched the babies being powdered, the glaze-eyed concentration on her mother’s face. Her mother ate talc powder by the spoonful, and she fed it to the human moth too, but never the others. When the human moth complained of her painful lungs and stomach, her mother fed her more. “It’ll fill you up,” her mother said, “and it won’t make you fat. Fatter. It won’t make you any more roly poly than you are now,” and she poked the human moth’s stomach to make the children laugh. “Nothing like the sound of a child’s laugh,” she said, glaring at the human moth for not joining in.
The human moth imagined the powder working its way through her skin, making her insides smell like lilac as well.
Her mother loved talcum powder. The human moth knew when her parents needed privacy. Her father appeared carrying a bottle of baby powder. He would shake it like a castanet, come on baby, and her mother would follow him and shut the door after her.
Her mother’s skin was scaly and scratchy and she came out in the morning looking like a ghost. Head to toe, runnelled talcum powder. Naked. “Don’t stand there with your mouth flapping open,” her mother said.
Her mother had no self-control. Her father always said that when they found her folded around a wine bottle. The human moth was the one to clean it up. He wouldn’t.
As the children began to leave, to grow up and move out, her parents made their plans. They would put her in a place, a home, they would lock her up and they would go away, because, her mother said, they had not lived a life at all, but instead they had sacrificed for their little girl so that she would want for nothing.
She wanted for everything.
Out of respect for her parents, after she smothered them she stretched them out like moths collected. Down in the basement her father had nails and hammers, he was a handyman but he never helped her.
It was exciting to her, seeing them like that. She was too terrified to speak to the police when they eventually knocked at the door, but it was clear, it was obvious to all, that an animal had done this, a hardened criminal, and that the human moth should be given all the privacy to grieve that she needed.
It was lonely without them, but it was nice not to have to open her mouth.
She lived alone in the big house until the failure of the lights. She had medical texts to read, and the Field Guide to Moths. She had cut out most of the moth pictures already but she liked to memorise the names.
She tried not to eat because moths don’t. But she got so hungry. She had no willpower. So she pretended to be a silkworm, eating enough to last the transformation. Most moths live off the fat stored in their bodies. She couldn’t live off fat, or off textiles.
She ate tinned food, ate it cold. Beetroot, tuna, pineapple. Baked beans, spaghetti, mini franks. Her mother was terrified the food would run out with all those children, then the children left and the parents died and all the tins were left. If a meal was slightly tainted from waiting for so long to be eaten, she ate it stirred through with lilac. She bought the bush inside and kept it by the window, where it flourished.
She kept the lights burning all the time. Every light in every room. This for a very long time because she was terrified that she would not find the switch in the dark. There was no one to tell her to turn the lights off.
Then…failure. Her power went and there was no light. She had candles and torches, but she knew they wouldn’t last long. The candles would burn down and the torches run out of power.
So she had to leave.
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