Author Games Compilation [Cycle 2]

One-Shot, One Kill - Prompt Three

Prompt: Horror; write a cosmic horror.

There is a cruel similarity in the occupations of the surgeon and the butcher. Each has hands accustomed to the careful workings of a blade, fingers adept at cutting through flesh. Alas, the surgeon is held in much higher esteem, for they are the saviours of life, Christs upon their stakes, although instead of their lives, they give only their time, and instead of sins, absolve you of your money. The butcher is seen more lowly, grovelling in blood and filth, and for what purpose other than to chop the heads of chickens and pigs, than to bring death, and take life? Ah, but remember, fine piggies, that the breasts of meat and thighs of fat you so sustain yourselves on had lives at one point, lives that needed taking before your fine teeth could rip at them; and the surgeon, with his fine tools and liquid resolutions, may not always succeed in the task at hand, and more often than not, death is to find his patient. Now the butcher, he never fails in his task - and done in one fell swoop!

See, now, the innerworkings of each, the ability of both to sustain and end life as they so please. Be not surprised when the butcher turns his back on you, and the surgeon soon thereafter.

You will not see them leave.

"Dad, I don't know if I can do this." I twist my hands together, small, soft hands not yet grown and calloused like mom or dad's. The creases of my palms are wet and wringing them together only slicks the sweat around and onto the pads of my fingers. I then try to wipe the moisture off on my costume, but looking down, I see only disappointment. "There's so many people out there. I look like a chunky walnut." I hang my head, and the brown hair falls into my eyes. "They're gonna laugh at me."

I feel pressure on my shoulders, and look up. Dad isn't smiling - he's not a smiley sort of person - but there's warmth on his face, and a grin at the corners of his eyes. And an awkward strain to his words. "You don't look like a chunky walnut. You look like a monster that's bound to scare some townspeoples' socks off. And if anyone tells you otherwise...you're a very scary walnut. Alright? They're gonna love ya."

He taps my shoulder in the way that a dad might wish his little league baseball star luck, but that's not me, I'm no athlete, not with my asthma, and not with my glasses that sometimes Sherry makes fun of, and not with this costume weighing me down to the floor. But I think Dad notices that I'm still down, so he crouches to my level (he likes when we're on even ground, he says) so that I have to look at him, and he grabs my elbows, and says, "I'll cut you a deal. You go out there and do your very best, and don't be so scared, and we'll go get ice cream after this, all three of us. Any flavor, any cone, any size. How does that sound?"

I've learned that Dad doesn't commit bribery very often, so this must be very special: I perk up, and nod rapidly. "Okay!"

And, although Dad doesn't smile, he cracks, a twitch of something on his lips before he smacks my shoulder again and stands. "Good. Well, I have to get back to your mom, but I promise you I'm never far away. You know your own drill - you'll be okay. Good luck, little man."

Then he's walking away, and then I'm staring at his back, and then I'm alone with strangers in the backstage dimness, already adjusted to the dark and able to pick out the shadows of people and assign names to them. I turn in search of Mrs. Shaw, the director of sorts, but I don't know where she went. Even if she's close by I don't think I'd notice her in the flurry of parents giving their children last minute wishes and touch-ups to makeup and costume design. I can't help watching some of them.

I see Sherry in the far corner, with her mother, and although they're both very put together, and very dressed up for tonight, I can see a tremble in her mom's hand as she brushes a type of powder or something onto Sherry's cheeks. "Now," I hear her mom say, trying to be composed but shaking a whole bunch, "what they say those crazy cultists are doing out there in the city, it's nothin' for you to be scared about, sweet pea. Most are out in those hellish places anyways, y'know, like Kentucky and Ohio. And don't you even worry about what your pa was talking about the news for, alright? Your aunt and grandma are here so I can't have you scaring onstage. They drove out a long way to stay with us, so we ought to give them a reason they came here and didn't go to Uncle Bobby's instead." She continues to ramble, but Sherry seems more at ease than her mother, and when she side-eyes me, I steal away, pinched meanly by her gaze.