April 30, 2015

“The dead girls came into the seafood place. They were not quite dead yet but they were getting close. They asked for lobsters, crabs, and mayonnaise-sauced cabbage salad. The girls smiled at one another, then glared at everyone else. I leaned over their seats while they shoved fried fish into their mouths. I told them this town was no place for fertile young girls. I said the Stitcher was walking up the street. I said the crab they ate was not real meat. I said there were unwanted things tucked beneath the tables.”


“The Stitcher came up the stairs. The Stitcher walked slowly. He creeped along. He ran his fingernails along the wallpaper, slitting the top layer without maiming the plaster beneath. I watched the Stitcher come. I did not hide from him. I was in awe of his stitching skills but the awe was not fearful. I was never afraid of the men. They were the ones who were afraid of me. The Stitcher’s arms swung at his sides as he walked. He kept his eyes on me. For several steps, he salivated in anticipation. For several steps, he glared. The Stitcher reached the top of the staircase and grabbed me by the shoulders.”


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