Free Fly On The Wall: Fairy Tales From A Misanthropic Universe, Vol. I by Alfy Dade Page A

that rushed to be
inside of her, well, she couldn't say they didn't care, but they
had definitely become desensitized, they did not care about her
anymore, only about the others like them. They were no longer
gentle, as they had been when they'd all first met. Now they used
her carelessly; they abused her recklessly. They never asked her if
she wanted it. Maybe they cared about her well being, but they
certainly never cared about what she wanted. She shed a tear as
black as a medieval night.
    It always
started the same way. First a deafening noise, no siren's song but
a shrill bell's screech instead. The frenzied shouts of savage
well-clad men, all of whom rushed to be the first in her. One time
she had not made them come quite quickly enough, they were furious
beyond belief; they'd raged, they'd shouted, and even hit her body
with their calloused fists. The day after they sent her away to
some depraved monster who tore out her most precious innards and
replaced them with cheap Chinese organs instead – ones clearly
garnered from unwilling donors. They worked, sure, and she now made
them come much quicker, but it just wasn't right; she wanted to be
herself. She wanted no part in the misery of others, whose services
were abruptly ended by the totalitarian state. The men cared little
for her, yet they would not let her leave. They kept her there,
downstairs, alone, in the dark. Dust was her only friend. Sometimes
she could hear them laughing upstairs. Sometimes they came down in
the day, sometimes they mocked her, threatening to ship her off and
get a new whore instead. Crying just made it worse, it was then
they slapped and hit her hardest. She looked forward to the days
when the men all came and hosed her down. It was better than when
they made her watch people burn, cremated while conscious. The
putrid smell of charred flesh filled the air she breathed too
often; she was too used to it. The bubbling, popping, fat of people
which furnished the wind with grisly firework-like sounds. She shed
another black tear; she could not be used like that again. She made
them come so quickly, and yet all she got in return in return was
to watch that most horrible of suffering.
    The
deafeningly shrill noise came, as it had so many times before. She
shed another black tear. She knew that soon, all of them would be
grasp their long, hard, slippery pole, and pile into her, one by
one. What was worse was they took turns. Today it was the chief who
would drive. He reached and flipped her switch, and off she went
again; her beacons flashed red and white, and her sirens
wailed.

33 – Mandala
    Once upon a
time, there was a monk, a very special monk. He knew not where he
had been born or what his name had been. It took months of travel
to reach his destination those many, many years ago. Guided by an
irresistible urge he ventured forth, 60 years to the day he arrived
at the monastery. Then he had been youthful, spry, and excited
about his future. Yet he was so now too. His life work stretched
out before him in the monastery's courtyard. It was the most
beautiful, largest, and most detailed sand mandala ever to have
been witnessed.
    For 60 years,
driven by divine urges, he woke faithfully at 4am and worked. For
60 years, day in and day out, he spent every minute by the mandala.
For 60 years all those who passed by could hear a faint musical
ringing around them, the gentle scraping noise which came from his
chak pur. The noise sounded off the courtyard walls with soft
echoes. For 60 years the monk studied, for 60 years he meditated;
how quick those 60 years had gone. The day this story came to be
was unlike any other, for he would be done. Each minute grain of
sand would finally find its perfect resting place. The temple
courtyard was full of brightly colored grains which the monk had
meticulously lain out. It was as though the mandala itself had
brought the peaceful calm over the courtyard, not a single errant
leaf moved on its own. Wind was the