Daniel M. Gonzalez weighs in with a genuinely unique story that really did captivate me upon first read. This is something new, and you all deserve to read this wildly creative short. You’re not all too likely to stumble upon anything quite like this.
Miss Pshaw, twenty-one slim and beautiful, said into the phone’s pockmarked mouthpiece, “He’s been spinning like that for hours. Drilling himself into the ground. I…” An interruption; Puppetro’s voice clamoring unintelligibly into Miss Pshaw’s conchoid ear via the phone’s single orificed receiver. Miss Pshaw’s pretty gaze turned in the direction of a large plate glass window at the far end of the rectangular, ornately furnished room she stood in. “I’ll see the lights of your auto when you pull up. Ten minutes. That’s fine, Puppetro.” Miss Pshaw hung up the phone.
Miss Pshaw sat smoking a tobacco cigarette and staring out the plate glass window when she saw the single cycloptic headlamp of Puppetro’s auto approach. Miss Pshaw straightened her short skirt, extinguished her quarter smoked tobacco cigarette, made her way to the art-wood door. Puppetro rang the doorbell. Upon opening the door, Miss Pshaw noticed on the pale face of Puppetro a flared nostril countenance she’d never seen on him before. “Nice to see you again, Puppetro.” Miss Pshaw said.
“Equally nice to see you, Miss Pshaw.” His voice was thin and wispy, ominous. “Now where’s the spinning man, the grinding man?”
“Over this way, Puppetro.” Miss Pshaw walked in the direction of the storage shack on the rear of the property and Puppetro followed. At four foot seven inches he stood a full foot shorter than Miss Pshaw. Miss Pshaw opened the storage shack’s ramshackle door and the two of them stepped inside.
“Oh, wow.” Puppetro said.
“He’s been spinning like that for hours. Drilling himself into the ground.”
Puppetro kneeled beside the spinning man careful to steer clear of his slowly rotating limbs. “His chest is the turning point’s fulcrum. Why, by the looks of it, judging from how severely torn his shirt and overalls are, and from the sheer volume of blood in the sand, he won’t be able to take much more of this, Miss Pshaw.”
“I’ve tried budging him for hours now. He won’t move and I can’t stop him turning like that.”
“And you’ll never be able to, Miss Pshaw. I hate to say this but you can count him as dead now, ma’am. He’s found a, what we puppetro’s call a ‘true born spot’ and there ain’t nothing in the world can drag him away now.” Puppetro’s small eyes looked up at Miss Pshaw and Miss Pshaw’s gaze turned towards the spinning man, the grinding man. Puppetro followed her gaze. “He’s stuck like that, ma’am. Won’t stop until he’s skeleton and even then…even then the skeleton will turn. Turn ‘til it’s dust, I guess.”
Puppetro gazed up at Miss Pshaw. The look on his face was one of genuine concern.