Simon Jacobs had an idea for a recurring series: flash fiction pieces in which the characters reenact famous works of art. Being a home for art and lit to meet and clash and mix, Paper Darts couldn't say no.
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Reading time: 3 minutes
Recommended for: Pseudo-witches
I am doing something lewd with a grape. You've created two enormous papier-mâché blueberries molded on oversized party balloons that we're meant to put over our heads and stumble blindly around in—there are no eye-holes and absolutely no light gets in.
We don the giant fruit heads and try to have sex on the kitchen table. In addition to being blind, I can barely breathe and sweat horribly, and our spherical shells knock dumbly against each other, forcing our necks into awkward and unfortunate angles. By the time our relevant naked parts find each other, we're long past feeling amorous. We carry it out with a kind of vague artistic stoicism—hardly a match for the old Flemish master—and when we're both depleted I rip my fruit head off with a strong whiff of glue and craft-hour and say something grandiose like, "The world's first couple," but you can't hear anything through the papier-mâché. You cock your blueberry to one side (the paint is flaking off where mine kept colliding with it) like, "What?"
Reading time: 4 minutes
Recommended for: Spookmeisters
Samhain is drawing near. You find the photos I have hidden on the computer. "I see you're into group stuff now," you say, the disgust evident in your voice. "This is certainly…a discovery."
I don't have even a glimmer of response—sometimes, things just get rude—but you don't mention it again, and I spend a quiet forty-eight hours listening to the Suspiriasoundtrack and working on my woolly bats and arcane twig constructions in my room; it's harmless spookmeister stuff, not everything needs to be canonical.
Reading time: 2 minutes
Recommended for: Ritualists
I am stately as fuck.
I stand absolutely still, the way most inanimate objects do, bracing myself for something to happen while praying that it won't. My new confines fit me like a second skin, and my eyes strain constantly to resolve the darkness into anything concrete. Dust settles over me.
They are moving down the hallway. Inches away from my precious temple, spike heels and combat boots creak across the floor, a search party combing the depths of the inverted tower where I once lived.