In honor of my favorite holiday (besides May the Fourth…and Revenge of the Fifth), Halloween, I decided to post some of the horror I’ve written. One of my favorites, “The Peephole” will not be published on this website because luckily it has been picked up by an editor and will be published in an anthology (who has first published rights as well). I enjoy writing all things, but horror is something I’ve always loved. “His Masterpiece” is a micro fiction, so it’s less than 300 words, and is just the beginning of what I’ll be posting this month for Halloween! Hope you enjoy! Feel free to comment and share if you wish!
My hair. For such an athletic man, he touched my hair like a mother would soothe a child after a nightmare. His actions were calculated and fluid; a dance to a symphony only he could hear. He turned on the water and waved his fingers through the thin stream like harp strings, waiting for the perfect temperature. Placing a gentle hand softly under my neck, he positioned my head to allow my silver waves to fall as the wonderfully mild water crept in, slowly saturating every strand.
Every process took me to another place of unearthly beauty. His cologne behind the dryer blew a warm sandalwood musk onto my closed eyelids, taking me to an island where he would look at me the way a hungry man looks at a desperate woman. Every curl he unraveled from the tepid barrel of the iron, he curled around his finger until the heat was gone, before slowly allowing gravity to determine the bounce. A hiss and soft cloud of aerosol sealed it – his masterpiece.
He painted my lips with a fine brush, like my delicate skin was fresh canvas; vintage rose, my favorite color. The photograph of me he referenced was a decades old, the corners as wrinkled as my body had become. A tap on the corner of the palette with a brush, he carefully blended the natural desert sand hue with a hint of spun gold. The photograph showed my eyes. He must have liked their color. They remained closed as he took a step back in his silent dance to admire his work. Lowering me into a white silk-lined box and laying my head softly onto the pillow, I know I’m not the corpse. I’m a masterpiece. I’m his masterpiece.