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throw that pussy like i'm famous
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((Rhory Anne Broderick continued from from the tit to the bone. Posted with staff permission.))

She kept her eyes fixed on the ferris wheel. Each step astern was slow, laborious. She realized as she lumbered backwardly along that this terrain was not meant for the blind. Still, she did not let her vision sway from the point where the gilded spokes met in the center. She kept her sight firmly at sky-level even as she half-stumbled over what she told herself was a rock, of course it was just a rock, and even as the top of the heavy thing she was dragging along banged painfully and repeatedly against her groin. It was unsettlingly stiff and surprisingly unwieldy. It felt unnatural in her arms. She could almost pretend it wasn’t a person as long as she didn’t look down. Just as she had identified the various debris that she flung from the scattered bags as Things, not Possessions, she acknowledged these forms as Meat (and while People had Possessions, Meat only had Things). But the various Meat-Things had amounted to nothing useful. Whether it had been a butcher here or just a vulture, they’d picked the bones clean. Rhory would have to search more thoroughly for her desperate re-supply.

Grave robbing (no not people, Meat) had turned out to be something difficult to do in the increasingly revealing early-morning light. It was wrong and made her feel vulnerable. She needed dark. And so there she was, shuffling sickly along with a surreal sense of paranoid guilt and a pretty blonde little slab of Meat dashing against her thighs, scaring the flies off it each time it hit and she tripped over rocks and Meat-rocks until finally, mercifully, painfully, her ankles smashed into the low steel ledge that marked the entrance to the hall. She took a breath.

She closed her eyes fully as she dragged It over the small step. There was a tearing sound as fabric (just fabric please just fabric) caught itself on the lip and ripped away. It began to resist more strongly. She felt her way around It blindly until finally there were rubbery thuds and they were moving back again. She kept her eyelids closed as she shuffled into what the thin pane jamming into her left shoulder on the way in told her was the first of the mirrors. She continued until her back hit sharply against some flimsy surface and took that as a sign to continue rightwards, inch by inch, switching directions each time she hit an obstacle and mentally recording her path, until finally she assessed the light pressing into her eyeballs as bearably minimal. She stopped and spread her legs wide, sliding the sack of Meat between them slowly until its neck lay contorted at the base of a mirror that contorted it further into a phantasmic parody Francis Bacon would admire. She noticed it had more freckles than she remembered, and that its eyes looked softer without make-up and she saw a trio of black flies conventing in her right nostril and before she registered what she was doing she had thrown her denim jacket over its face.


Her hand hovered trembling first over the sickly sticky-brown torso. She searched for a wound, but the whole thing was a mess of long dead vitality too thick to see through. Her eyes darted around nervously for a cleaner cavity. She noticed the right pocket of its jeans, with a ragged ring of lumpy brown-red edging just into the opening and a visible silhouette pressing its way through the soiled fabric.

She bit her lip.

She reached.

Her fingertips brushed against a viscous glob and she groaned as she pressed determinedly past it. She pushed vigorously, harder than she intended and her nails dug into hard skin and tensed muscle and her fingers ran down it over the thin cotton innards for a full eternal second before the nauseous electricity hit and she flew ungracefully back into the mirror opposite Head VII and choked back gags for several minutes as she laid pitifully against the steel floor.

This, she thought, wasn’t going to work so great after all.
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Laisse tomber les filles · Hall of Mirrors