K Srilata That morning, I woke without a face. I had dropped it, sleep walking at night, through a forest of fallen trees. The worms had gotten to all but the ears. In the shop down the road, they had just sold the last human face. “Sorry, madam. We are out of stock,” the salesman informed a friend, “In any case, we only do disposables and the lady, you say, wants a face that will weather the long winters of dying poems? A more permanent sort of face, that would be then… We don’t do those, I’m afraid.” Eventually, I have to settle for a disposable. A face that will not out-last the forgetting of lines. But it can do “sad”. And it can do “happy”. It can get on better than my old face could. On the first day of every month, I walk to that forest of fallen trees and bury my face in a graveyard filled with my faces. Carefully, I put on a new one, pink and fresh from its plastic case and, despite the absence of interested worms, die again and again and again.
Did your book tell you that? Yes, it was morning when things fell apart.
Clip had just woken up. She couldn't tell the metal spring from the others.
That was the third time she was jammed between hoards of hair and a pale white wall. She did not like lime. It was white and dry. She did prick a couple of times when she was done that to. Only the position shifted to someplace higher on that head that both hair and the wall were ticklish. This felt horrible. She needed a break. She took it.