Never Touch the Baby Carriage

This week, for Hedgewitch’s Friday 55, our tale explores what might’ve happened (or not) during a tour of an abandoned NYC mansion.
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“Don’t touch it.”

“Why?”

Tourists. “Hunger. The baby’s eternally… No!”

But I wasn’t fast enough, the tourist’s face was already in the stroller, feeding noises filling the room.

“Never touch the baby carriage,” I whispered, as my brain fought to forget the wet popping sound an eyeball makes when it’s sucked out of its socket.

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a wee note…
– this is a work of fiction. Yes, I know babies can be outrageously creepy, but… I’ve never heard of a toothless youngster feeding on the eyeballs of NYC tourists who can’t follow rules. But one can still hope… Anyhoo, this flash was inspired by a picture in Bryan Sansivero’s article, “Exploring an Abandoned New York Mansion with a Secret Past”, in Atlas Obscura.

by Bryan Sansivero

Fibs Make Horrible Holiday Gifts

December 15, 2013
Eeriesoil, New York

Mother,

Fibs make horrible holiday gifts. Lying tongues shrivel the heart, dull the bite. Is that a raisin, caged between your ribs and the slug that used to be your spine? Blood deserves truth—I give you my refusal to feign fright at the sight of garlic crosses… just to fit your acquaintances’ myth of bliss.

Yours in blood,
Drusilla Amarantha Tepes, the Only

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the wee notes…
– I don’t think you need to know the speaker’s story, or the details of her relationship with the subject, to appreciate this bit of prose poetry. But if you wish to know more about her, visit my Web Serials page, and check out, Drusilla; or, Camp Cute, Creepy and (quite conveniently) Remote.
– for Hedgewitch’s Friday 55 and the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.

Not for Girls

Fridays at the cyber-home of the Hedgewitch are unruly. All right, so that is a bit of a lie. In truth, they are filled with poetry and prose (55 words) ruled by none but the wild muses and wilder wants of the writers birthing them. Since my muse and I adore freedom-kissed tales with words in them, we wrote one.
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“Not for Girls”

“The eyeballs are the windows to the brain,” she said.

Science and conviction weren’t made for girls, I thought. “You’re wrong, dearie, they are the windows to the soul.”

She shrugged. “I went through the eyes, touched the back of his skull, ran into plenty of yuck and bits of brain, sir, but no soul.”

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