I've been busy working on longer projects lately, and so my output of short stories is not especially brillaint. I have one to write for Pudsey Writers on Friday, and one for Writers in the Rafters for the following Thursday.
So here is a flash fiction I wrote a while ago for a competition, but which I never entered - Terry didn't like it so much.
See end for notes on the text.
Fair’s Fur
She considered
herself fortunate in inheriting from her mother the most stunning collection of
furs. Never mind that public opinion, always so fickle, had swung away from the
wearing of furs, they were beautiful, they were vintage, and, most importantly
of all, they were hers.
Mink, of
course, ermine. Coney and pony. A fox stole, still with brush attached.
Coyote and Chinchilla; each day she reverently removed them from their closets,
spread them on the bed and lay on top of them, unclothed, feeling the sensuous
delight of soft fur stroking her skin… presently, selecting one, she’d dress
herself in it (such a pity she could no longer wear them outside the house;
people were so harsh…) and admire her
reflection, part-woman, part-animal, all cougar.
Today was
special.
She had found
it through the internet, and as she tenderly opened the parcel, a sense of near-orgasmic
awe overwhelmed her.
‘Leopard,
allegedly used for tribal rites,’ the invoice read.
It would
make an enchanting rug.
Carrying it
up to her sumptuous bedroom, she draped it across her waiting furs. Her fingers
traced the dome of its snarling head, continued along its length, drifted off
into the mound of furs.
A sudden
noise, a growl.
Ridiculous!
But there –
guttural, harsh, primal.
The furs
stirred. Her fox stole whipped around her neck, the brush thrusting into her
throat as she tried to scream, muffling, choking her as she writhed and died
staring into the snarling dead eyes of the leopard’s mask.
Please note that I do not advocate or condone any trade in real fur or real fur products. This story is a work of fiction.
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