An Arnzealous Tale: The Right Stuff (or, the Blessing of Fat Face)

First things first. GO HERE: http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/nathanrosen/michael-a-arnzens-fridge-of-the-damned-magnetic-po GIVE MONEY. BE RAD.

Until the end of January, super awesome indie publisher Raw Dog Screaming Press has declared it ARNZSTIGATION DAYS (days! days!). They've requested pieces inspired by the master of microfiction himself, Michael A. Arnzen. 

From Raw Dog Screaming Press: "Now through the end of January post a short story, poem, piece of art, excerpt from a longer work instigated by Arnzen or even a blog reflection on his influence. Then post a link here, on the RDSP FB page or send it directly to books@rawdogscreaming.com. I will share it through our page, our twitter account and collect the links in a permanent blog entry on the RDSP blog. This will support the cause and also showcase your project. Include  a link to the kickstarter:http://tinyurl.com/b4zkr5m. Invisible slimy bonus points to those who include some explanatory text such as: Be an instigator, support the Fridge of the Damned poetry magnet kickstarter."

Being a big fan, I decided to write a story inspired by Mike's story "The Curse of Fat Face." This piece really stuck with me when I read it in his collection "100 Jolts." If you haven't read the book already, what the balls have you been doing with your life?! 

Anywho, here is my story "The Right Stuff." It needs work, but at least it exists now, and I think Fat Face herself would be happy to know she didn't spend eternity in a jar on her mama's mantle. Although, I'm not sure her final destination was much better.... 

Either way, I hope you enjoy this slice of the McHughniverse borrowed from the Arnzenation. :D

The Right Stuff

or, The Blessing of Fat Face

by Jessica McHugh

Flat-Chested Charrie was a notorious bra-stuffer. In the beginning, she relied heavily on tissues and paper towels, but after watching her Bounty-filled bosoms shrink beneath the water hurled by girls in her gym class, she was always on the lookout for the next great stuffing. So far, she’d been failed by socks, peaches, even jumbo jawbreakers she’d won in a David Hyde Pierce lookalike contest. The closest she came to normality was in gelatin and pudding-filled balloons, but something about them never felt right. Beauty, still, was never abreast.

It seemed hopeless for Flat-Chested Charrie. She would never have a boyfriend. She would never know how it felt to be suckled by a man like that feisty goat at the 4H fair three years before (and once last year).  Staring at her naked body, at the ecru nipples that receded into themselves when faced with their reflection, Charrie pondered what she could fix.

She’d always been a skinny thing. Perhaps, too skinny.

For the next several weeks, no food was off-limits. Charrie watched in wonder as her ass expanded and her belly bowed under the weight of ambition. Shiny tracks of scar tissue joined the party, stretching across her body and meeting, with jiggling kisses, stripes of irritated skin on her hips where denim punished her flesh.

Her face spread, too, mocking the rigidity of other faces. Her chins waved like a pond struck by a pebble, and her cheeks echoed a bit of the splash. But as voluptuous as she became, as many ferris wheels had to be decommissioned due to her girder-bending heft, Flat-Chested Charrie remained flat-chested. In fact, her breasts took a tip from her nipples and also retreated inward, causing her empty skin to sag, cold and lonely as slaughterhouse cattle--but less desired. Clearly, that kind of fat wasn’t the answer.

While she waited for the weight to drop, she returned to old solutions. She’d never been a garish girl, which is why she liked wearing her bra ornaments so much. The hooks were always tricky to thread through her shy nipples, but once the large green and red balls were dangling from her chest, she felt a bit of her old spirit returned. Unlike tissues, the adornments were never at risk for falling out or shrinking, and thanks to a few layers of bubble wrap, breaking wasn’t likely, either. There was only was problem.

When Charrie exercised, the plastic rubbed against her sweaty chest, causing staccato squeaks. The other joggers stared at her, judging her. It seemed unfair when her stares were born of admiration. How nice they looked in their sports bras, the spandex hugging their breasts while still allowing a romantic bounce. It was a wonder she could see anything else, let alone the twinkle of a jar inside the neighboring house.

Sun on glass, that’s all it was. But it drew Charrie in like so much more. Her chest squeaked out a warning, but the jar of jelly lorded her mind.

“Can I help you?”

Charrie spun around to face ample breasts, their ivory skin prickled by the breeze. It took her much longer to see the woman who wore them. Flat-Chested Charrie didn’t know her well; just that she was over forty and lived alone. It was like looking into the future—except that future had nice tits. Mrs. Face stood akimbo, mail in hand, and looked down on the girl fumbling for any lie that would get her closer to the glowing mush.

“I’m selling cookies,” she said, but Mrs. Face said nothing.

“Pizza.” Nothing.

“T-shirts.” Nothing.

“Dildos.” An eyebrow raise.

“I’m selling lots of stuff,” Charrie said, her eyes focused several inches below Mrs. Face’s face. “I have a catalog I can show you girls.”

“It’s just me, dearie. My husband left when our daughter Fatima passed. Although, it feels like she’s still here sometimes. Her spirit, I mean.” A blush crossed the bulges above her blouse, and she nodded. “Okay, I guess I have a few minutes to look through your catalog.”

She had no plan, but once inside, Charrie’s concave chest led her straight to the mantle to inspect the jar. It was filled with what looked like pink mashed potatoes and pork. The consistency was similar to the pudding that had once filled her bra, but there was more texture in the jar’s contents, more life in the lumps.

“What’s this?”

Mrs. Face’s breasts sunk lower on her ribcage. “That’s my Fatima. Beautiful, isn’t she? She never thought so. She wanted so badly to be part of something beautiful.”

Flat-Chested Charrie understood, and like any sensible girl, she came to the conclusion that she had to help Fatima Face live her dream by living her own.

Charrie was nothing if not a desperate girl. (She had Christmas ornaments hanging from her nipples, for Christ’s sake.) So, when she eyed up Fatima’s stuffing, then the letter opener on the desk, only 1% of her plan seemed like the most horrendous plan ever.   

“So where’s this catalog?” Mrs. Face asked.

“Can I have some orange juice or soda?”

“I think I have some milk.”

“Okay, but I want a lot of it. A whole glass.”

Mrs. Face didn’t try to hide rolling her eyes as she left. Flat-Chested Charrie didn’t try to hide grabbing the letter opener and snatching the human gelatin from the mantle.  She tore off her top and unhooked her festive breasts, wincing through the violence. With the letter opener braced in her fingers, she gave the jar a good swirl.

Yes. It would work. All she had to do was make an incision.

The work was done by the time Mrs. Face entered the room. Holding the flaps closed, Chesty Charrie stood more confident than ever before, the empty jar lying at her feet. It filled with spilled milk as Mrs. Face fell to her knees, crying, “Fatima…my God…” When she looked up again, her tears continued to fall, but they no longer fell heavy. There was a new lightness in the woman, something that increased as Charrie neared.

 “She’s beautiful,” Mrs. Face whispered. “You both are. Thank you for this, my dear. How can I repay you for granting my daughter's wish?"

“I’m the grateful one. If you want anything, it’s yours.”

“Do you mean that?”

“Of course. What do you want?”

Mrs. Face wrapped her arm around Chesty Charrie, offering a simpering smile as she said, “The thing is, you’re representing my daughter now. And while you look a lot better, you still need to worry about your…”

Charrie didn’t need to hear anything more.

When it came down to beauty, there wasn’t enough human gelatin in the world.

The End