Pulled Across a Sharpening Stone
By Kenneth W. Harmon
Every summer, when the Magnus Brothers Circus came to town, Harold Painter visited the freak show. He didn’t come to marvel at the man who swallowed swords, or the Siamese twins, Brian and Ross, joined at the skull. He wasted no time with the monkey boy of Peru, or the world’s strongest man. Harold came to see three women. Tina the human turtle, Isabella the tattoo lady, and Abby the world’s heaviest woman.
“Why in the world do you pay to be with me?” Tina asked as he handed her money.
“This is where I belong,” Harold said as he undressed.
He touched her on the back, covered in a rough, leathery hide, raised in hundreds of tumors that grew together to form her “turtle-like” shell. “You deserve to be loved,” Harold said kissing her brow. “Everyone deserves to be loved.”
“Who loves you?” She asked while leading him to her cot.
“You love me.”
“Yes.”
“And you will help me become the man that I was meant to be?”
She nodded and pulled him against her.
When they finished having sex, Harold sat on the edge of the cot smoking a cigarette, while Tina scoured his back with the pieces of rough lava stone he had brought. Her hand moved in wide circles, the stone digging into the flesh until blood bubbled to the surface. An occasional gasp whispered from his lips, otherwise, Harold endured the scouring in silence. Tina stopped when his back became a bloody canvas. “Are you sure this is what you want?”
He nodded. “The wounds from last year formed calluses yes?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“And the skin is becoming tough?”
“It is.”
Harold took a long drag on the cigarette and blew out a smoke ring. “Then this is what I want.”
***
A hundred candles flickered across the darkness in Isabella’s trailer. The air smelled of ink and roses. She floated through the shadows, always in motion like a gypsy dancer. She kept her room dark to mask her advancing age. Her once taut body now sagged in fine creases. Mona Lisa’s smile transformed into a grimace. The American flag lost a stripe. Tattoos covered every part of her body, including her face. Harold sometimes thought that she would have her eyes tattooed if it was possible.
“You hide behind your tattoos.”
Isabella smiled, candlelight gleaming on her teeth the color of a snail’s shell. “If I wanted to hide, do you think I would cover myself in art that brings me attention?”
“Yes,” Harold said, “because when people are focused on your tattoos, they don’t see the person behind them.”
“Is that why you come to me every year for new tattoos?” She asked.
“I don’t want people to see me.”
She slipped out of her robe. “Do you want to see me, now that I’m growing old and ugly?”
He held out a hand to welcome her onto the bed. “You’re not old and ugly to my eyes.”
***
Abby’s body jiggled with each step. Rolls of fat washed over her stomach like ocean waves. Pools of sweat gathered in the folds of her skin. Her body smelled like fried garlic. Harold sat before her supporting one of her breasts with two hands. He sucked sweat from her nipple like sweet nectar. Abby’s sausage fingers explored his back and arms. “You’ve seen Tina and Isabella all ready.”
“Yes.”
“Why do you come to me last?”
He smiled. “I saved the best for last.”
Her eyes showed disbelief. “You make love to me because I’m a curiosity.”
“I make love to you because you’re comfortable in your own skin.” He paused to look into her brown eyes. A single tear rolled onto her cheek. “Why do you cry?”
“You’ve gained weight since last year.”
He patted his roll of belly fat. “Twenty pounds.”
“You gain weight every year after seeing me.”
Harold leaned close to kiss away her salty tear. “I want to be comfortable in my skin.”
Abby’s eyebrows knitted as she studied his face. “Close your eyes and pretend that I’m perfect.”
Harold touched a finger to her lips. “You are perfect.”
- - -
I live in Fort Collins, Colorado with my wife and four daughters. In 2009, I was a finalist for the Pacific Northwest Writer's Association Zola Award. In 2010, my short fiction has appeared or is scheduled to appear in Amarillo Bay, Dark Fire Fiction, Deadman's Tome, Bewildering Stories, Twisted Tongue Magazine, 69 Flavors of Paranoia, Necrology Shorts, and FlashShot.
By Kenneth W. Harmon
Every summer, when the Magnus Brothers Circus came to town, Harold Painter visited the freak show. He didn’t come to marvel at the man who swallowed swords, or the Siamese twins, Brian and Ross, joined at the skull. He wasted no time with the monkey boy of Peru, or the world’s strongest man. Harold came to see three women. Tina the human turtle, Isabella the tattoo lady, and Abby the world’s heaviest woman.
“Why in the world do you pay to be with me?” Tina asked as he handed her money.
“This is where I belong,” Harold said as he undressed.
He touched her on the back, covered in a rough, leathery hide, raised in hundreds of tumors that grew together to form her “turtle-like” shell. “You deserve to be loved,” Harold said kissing her brow. “Everyone deserves to be loved.”
“Who loves you?” She asked while leading him to her cot.
“You love me.”
“Yes.”
“And you will help me become the man that I was meant to be?”
She nodded and pulled him against her.
When they finished having sex, Harold sat on the edge of the cot smoking a cigarette, while Tina scoured his back with the pieces of rough lava stone he had brought. Her hand moved in wide circles, the stone digging into the flesh until blood bubbled to the surface. An occasional gasp whispered from his lips, otherwise, Harold endured the scouring in silence. Tina stopped when his back became a bloody canvas. “Are you sure this is what you want?”
He nodded. “The wounds from last year formed calluses yes?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“And the skin is becoming tough?”
“It is.”
Harold took a long drag on the cigarette and blew out a smoke ring. “Then this is what I want.”
***
A hundred candles flickered across the darkness in Isabella’s trailer. The air smelled of ink and roses. She floated through the shadows, always in motion like a gypsy dancer. She kept her room dark to mask her advancing age. Her once taut body now sagged in fine creases. Mona Lisa’s smile transformed into a grimace. The American flag lost a stripe. Tattoos covered every part of her body, including her face. Harold sometimes thought that she would have her eyes tattooed if it was possible.
“You hide behind your tattoos.”
Isabella smiled, candlelight gleaming on her teeth the color of a snail’s shell. “If I wanted to hide, do you think I would cover myself in art that brings me attention?”
“Yes,” Harold said, “because when people are focused on your tattoos, they don’t see the person behind them.”
“Is that why you come to me every year for new tattoos?” She asked.
“I don’t want people to see me.”
She slipped out of her robe. “Do you want to see me, now that I’m growing old and ugly?”
He held out a hand to welcome her onto the bed. “You’re not old and ugly to my eyes.”
***
Abby’s body jiggled with each step. Rolls of fat washed over her stomach like ocean waves. Pools of sweat gathered in the folds of her skin. Her body smelled like fried garlic. Harold sat before her supporting one of her breasts with two hands. He sucked sweat from her nipple like sweet nectar. Abby’s sausage fingers explored his back and arms. “You’ve seen Tina and Isabella all ready.”
“Yes.”
“Why do you come to me last?”
He smiled. “I saved the best for last.”
Her eyes showed disbelief. “You make love to me because I’m a curiosity.”
“I make love to you because you’re comfortable in your own skin.” He paused to look into her brown eyes. A single tear rolled onto her cheek. “Why do you cry?”
“You’ve gained weight since last year.”
He patted his roll of belly fat. “Twenty pounds.”
“You gain weight every year after seeing me.”
Harold leaned close to kiss away her salty tear. “I want to be comfortable in my skin.”
Abby’s eyebrows knitted as she studied his face. “Close your eyes and pretend that I’m perfect.”
Harold touched a finger to her lips. “You are perfect.”
- - -
I live in Fort Collins, Colorado with my wife and four daughters. In 2009, I was a finalist for the Pacific Northwest Writer's Association Zola Award. In 2010, my short fiction has appeared or is scheduled to appear in Amarillo Bay, Dark Fire Fiction, Deadman's Tome, Bewildering Stories, Twisted Tongue Magazine, 69 Flavors of Paranoia, Necrology Shorts, and FlashShot.
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