The Graveyard Mannequins - Regular Price: 99 Cents - Don Broyles

[Dr. Drib]

Come with me now into the fractured world of The Graveyard Mannequins. Free yourself now, I say! Don't be afraid. It's only your life that is at stake. Relax. Get lost in another world. Shhhhh! They can hear you. They hear everything, even your guarded whispers that fill the night, your soft whimpering pleas. RELAX.

The Graveyard Mannequins: Prose Poems & Short Fiction

by
Don Broyles

LINK:
https://www.amazon.com/Graveyard-Man...s%2C342&sr=8-1

[Dr. Drib]

Sit back. Relaxxxx. Therrreee you go...that's it. Here, hold my ebook reader while I pull out all those nasty teeth. Why don't you read this story by Don Broyles. It's from his book, The Graveyard Mannequins. What's that? Oh, yes: It's OK to scream! I thoughtfully constrcted a sound-proof room. I wouldn't have it any other way, you teaser you. (Lightly pats the man's head, as if engaging in an imposition of hands, albeit one of an overly friendly or familiar touch that hints at something far removed from the simple act of benediction.) Let's see: It's a story about a doll that wants a little something special as it pounds and pounds upon the glass, trying to get in. HEY! I have an idea. Why don't you and my character scream together. Or I can scream with you. Let me move the microphone closer to you. We can pretend we're two Yoko Onos! Hahahahaha! (Looks around the room.) Now where did I put those pliers?

The Graveyard Mannequins

by

Don Broyles

[Dr. Drib]

You are alone in your coffin. Quite alone. Or so you think.

The air is still, the wood damp with mildew. You can smell the rot—a heavy sense of decay that lingers in the tight space. Or perhaps you smell yourself. It is hard to tell, since movement is limited.

But wait. There's a slight buzzing sound that is difficult to immediately place. It's getting louder. Closer. It's a fly. You're certain of this, although you can only hear its pathetic little wings as it circles your body. Now close to your face. Now distant, then close again. You remain perfectly still.

Buzzzzzzz. Buzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Dear God, you will go mad if this dance continues.

The fly lands on your cheek, then slowly advances to your nose. You feel an urge to sneeze, an itch to scratch. But you do nothing. Not yet. Your hands rest at your sides. Your fingernails are long. Slowly, you raise your right hand. Well, of course: you are right-handed. You carefully twist your hand around, negotiating the tight space, maneuvering your arm and wrist.

Then, with a sudden forward thrust, you launch your incredibly long fingernails. You squeeze the little sucker just as he cleans his legs. His plump little body audibly pops, disgorging hundreds of maggots.

Oh, supreme joy! You smile as you eat, then swallow the unexpected feast.

It's great to be undead. *

The Graveyard Mannequins

by

Don Broyles

* This is a promotional copy only and did not exist before I made this post. The link to The Graveyard Mannequins is in the signature.

[Dr. Drib]

A revision from the previous promotional post. This story is not in The Graveyard Mannequins, by the way. It's pure pulp, no getting around that happy fact. If you like this type of writing, then you might try

The Graveyard Mannequins

by

Don Broyles

Alone in your Coffin

You are alone in your coffin. Quite alone. Or so you think.
The air is still, the wood damp with mildew. You can smell the rot, a heavy sense of decay that lingers in this tight space. Or perhaps you smell yourself. It is hard to tell, since movement is necessarily limited.
But wait. There is a slight buzzing sound difficult to place. You try to penetrate the dark, your eyes moving left, then right. Yes, it is definitely getting louder, closer, the sound buzzing around you. You discern a small object, something that carries the dark on its wings: It must be a fly. You're certain, although you can only hear its pathetic little wings as it circles the upper part of your body and lands on your cheek. You remain perfectly still. Waiting. With ineffable slowness the fly advances across your cheek, as if inspecting every pore. It’s wings flutter once, sending a tiny breeze like a tickling breath toward your open eyes that never blink. You feel your tongue searching the roof of your mouth.
Buzzzzzzz. Buzzzzzzzzzzzz.
The fly slowly advances to the very tip of your nose. You feel an urge to sneeze, an itch to scratch. But you do nothing. Not yet. Your hands rest at your sides. Your fingers are preternaturally long. Slowly, you raise your right hand and curl your fingers into a ball as you negotiate the tight space, maneuvering both arm and wrist so that everything is in perfect position.
Now!
With a sudden forward thrust, you launch your long fingers unerringly toward your nose and latch onto the fly with thumb and index finger. You feel the fly’s frantic tremors as it tries to escape. You chuckle as you hold it firmly in place, the fly’s body twisting and turning, a vibration that you feel in the tips of your fingers. You can almost hear its tiny screams of distress. You listen carefully: Yes, you hear them now, high-pitched screams that lend completion to your endeavor, that give reason to your existence.
You slowly increase the pressure. But it is all useless, mere theatre, for the fly is doomed by its own ineptitude. You hear an audible pop as its plump body disgorges hundreds of squirming maggots.
Oh, supreme joy! You smile as you eat, then swallow the unexpected feast, your eyes unblinking as you continue to stare at the top of your coffin. You now know that you will never be alone in the night, in the darkness of the void that is your joyful existence.