Uncle Hershel & His Chocolate Egg Cream by Travis Louie
09.23.14
He was beautiful.
Was.
Traffic stopped when he passed.
Point of fact, it still does.
Only for the opposite of reasons.
His body so chiseled to perfection, a nun once catcalled through her habit.
Now when people whistle, it’s mostly from fear. And from a distance.
That day he chose not to shave, allowing nature to follow its path through the pores of skin covering his perfectly structured cheek bones. That day the hair came first in thin sprouts feather soft to the touch. Once it framed the chin dimple and upper lip dark enough to be seen beyond close mirror inspections, he picked up his razor again.
But then was too late.
That first time the sharp too many bladed razor sliced through the bristle tips, blood sheeted down the curves of the porcelain white sink. The stinging nerve response elicited a wince of pain and a palm to cover the cheek.
His bloody hand print pressed to the faucet as he stared closely into the reflection providing a view of the remaining hair writhing as it retreated back into his face. Each follicle alive. Afraid. Pissed off.
The next morning, longer. He could no longer see any skin. Even the previous day’s cuts reached through into the air again. Freshly tipped with moist, circular breathers. At the mere motion of his hand toward the razor, his face reared back hissing with defensive instincts.
The beard grew.
His neck front no longer present or accounted for. Nose buried beneath a flap of tentacles in constant motion. In order to reach his mouth, the feelers would raise up and part leaving space for the glass of water or spoonful of cereal to reach inside.
Dressed in his finest suit, usually saved for weddings or funerals, he would walk the street aware of the difference in people staring. The children hiding behind protective mother arm shields. Tires squealing on the road in attempts to brake or turn quickly in the other direction.
He sits alone in the darkest corner of the bar. Top hat slightly skewed on his speckled bald head. Beard limbs grip and lift the mug to his mouth. He drinks his beer. Unshaven.
#TerrorTuesday
the Key to everything
http://bit.ly/tK2eAmzn
*
A Chorus of Wolves
bitly.com/1atXBAV
He was beautiful.
Was.
Traffic stopped when he passed.
Point of fact, it still does.
Only for the opposite of reasons.
His body so chiseled to perfection, a nun once catcalled through her habit.
Now when people whistle, it’s mostly from fear. And from a distance.
That day he chose not to shave, allowing nature to follow its path through the pores of skin covering his perfectly structured cheek bones. That day the hair came first in thin sprouts feather soft to the touch. Once it framed the chin dimple and upper lip dark enough to be seen beyond close mirror inspections, he picked up his razor again.
But then was too late.
That first time the sharp too many bladed razor sliced through the bristle tips, blood sheeted down the curves of the porcelain white sink. The stinging nerve response elicited a wince of pain and a palm to cover the cheek.
His bloody hand print pressed to the faucet as he stared closely into the reflection providing a view of the remaining hair writhing as it retreated back into his face. Each follicle alive. Afraid. Pissed off.
The next morning, longer. He could no longer see any skin. Even the previous day’s cuts reached through into the air again. Freshly tipped with moist, circular breathers. At the mere motion of his hand toward the razor, his face reared back hissing with defensive instincts.
The beard grew.
His neck front no longer present or accounted for. Nose buried beneath a flap of tentacles in constant motion. In order to reach his mouth, the feelers would raise up and part leaving space for the glass of water or spoonful of cereal to reach inside.
Dressed in his finest suit, usually saved for weddings or funerals, he would walk the street aware of the difference in people staring. The children hiding behind protective mother arm shields. Tires squealing on the road in attempts to brake or turn quickly in the other direction.
He sits alone in the darkest corner of the bar. Top hat slightly skewed on his speckled bald head. Beard limbs grip and lift the mug to his mouth. He drinks his beer. Unshaven.
#TerrorTuesday
the Key to everything
http://bit.ly/tK2eAmzn
*
A Chorus of Wolves
bitly.com/1atXBAV
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