shaking.
“Yes,” she echoed in something between a purr and a hiss. “Yes…”
His shivering stopped.
She produced a long, curved needle and a spool of metallic thread. “Yes?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said through chattering teeth.
“Yesss…”
His jaw became still.
She placed the zipper along his spine. She no longer had to ask.
“Yes,” he whimpered.
“Yes, be afraid.” Then, she began to sew. She was gentle, at first, then aggressive, feeding off of each acknowledgement and cry.
“Yes. Yes,” he said, tears streaming down his cheek.
And she became more and more luminous until only the blacks of her eyes and teeth, the red of her lips could be seen.
The skin along his spine was swollen, pink, and bleeding. But the zipper shined and flashed in her light with each movement of his small, shivering body.
She marveled at her creation. “Come, boy, let me step inside,” she said as she began to unzip him.
There was a sudden flurry of scratching sounds as a horde of monsters emerged from their kingdom beneath his bed. “She is here. She is here. She is here,” they whispered.
The creatures were a terrifying sight.
They were pale from living underground. Their claws, sharp, pointed, and perfectly designed for digging and hunting, hung in curved points at the ends of their muscular arms. Their bodies were thick, with loose folds of skin that hung from their frames, the legs that carried them, thin and knobby jointed. They had the crooked, protruding teeth of a bulldog and white, cataracted eyes – all of which were trained upon the witch.
“Go away!” she hissed.
They surrounded the bed and began clawing at her legs, tearing through her paper-thin skin and releasing her light in bright, piercing streaks.
“No!” she screamed. “Let me unzip you, boy! Protect me!”
“No… No… No…” came a chorus of whispers as the monsters formed a protective wall around him.
“Please, boy, please! They will surely eat you once they kill me.”
“But I am no longer afraid of them,” he said. “I feel… nothing.”
“Yes, I have hollowed you. And now there is room for me.”
She fought back at the creatures, slashing them with claws of her own. Black ink began to bleed into her eyes, and a burst of energy shot forth from her body, knocking the stunned creatures to the ground.
Her glow ebbed, and her beauty faded. “Come to me, boy. I need your form.”
He stood still.
“If you love your sister,” she said, splaying her fingers towards the girl to release the creeping mist, “You will come to me.”
“No!” he cried. Then, softly, “I will do as you ask.” He stepped forward and turned his back to face her, crying as the witch yanked the zipper down his spine. He stared at his sleeping sister. “I love you,” he said. “I love you more than anything.”
“It does not matter, boy,” the witch said as she pulled apart his skin. “She cannot hear you.”
His vision blackened as she stepped inside.
He awoke to the sounds of scratches retreating beneath him and the witch’s final words resounding through his mind.
She is already dead.
His heart stopped, and he turned towards the girl in a panic. “Mirai?” He held his breath, staring at her tiny form.
She looked just like an angel.
###
Also by KM Zafari
The Tangi Bridge
A very short story! It's only about 850 words, but it has been lovingly crafted.
This is the story of the night patrolman on the Tangi Bridge. Fans of "The Lottery" and "The Lady or the Tiger" may enjoy this one.
*****
“The Tangi Bridge”
(excerpt)
"He didn't always see them jump, but the sounds were unavoidable. Some screamed on the way down; some went in dignified silence. But their lives always ended the same - with a loud, sickening splash.
A few chose to go at it alone, but most were grateful for his presence in their final hours. Several talked at length of their lives, although many were content to simply sit quietly beside him until dawn. Then, after steadying their nerves, they launched themselves off the creaking, wooden bridge and into the water below.
He had been told never to watch, but he always did. How could he not? The least he could do, he felt, was to be with them in those final, fleeting moments so they knew that they hadn't been alone, that someone would remember them.
Those who accepted the calling - really accepted it - went without fear. They were the fortunate ones, their calmness and serenity helping them recall what they had long been taught in school - how to hit the water at the ideal obliquity required for the fastest and least painful death.
The screamers were much harder to watch.
They frequently flailed on the way down, hitting the water, hard as stone, at an odd angle, crushing most of their structural bones. Survival instincts always kicked in, and they would splash around in a panic - helpless, thrashing sacks of broken limbs.
Whether they succumbed to the cold water or invisible injuries, eventually, they stilled, often floating in pools of dissipating wine as the impartial river swept their bodies out to sea."
The Tears You’ll Never Cry
(a poem for mourning the loss of a child)
Written for the victims of the Sandy Hook Elementary School massacre. I pledge to donate 100% of the proceeds I receive from this poem to charities that support those who have lost children.
Nibbles (Bite-Sized Fiction for a Fast-Paced, Super-Sized World)
A collection of prose poems, Twitter-sized for your convenience.
Coming Soon
"The Executioner"
(short story)
A young journalist discovers more than he anticipated when he is sent to cover the county’s first electricide.
About the Author
KM Zafari has been writing for a very long time, but this is her first foray into publishing.
You can find out more about her at https://thebatinthehat.com or follow her on Twitter at https://twitter.com/thebatinthehat, where she often publishes free microfiction/prose poetry.
She is honored to have you read her work.
Thank you.
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