my gorgeous Garbage Pail Kids!
Today, I'm featuring a short story that will soon be heard far and wide on
The Wicked Library Season Three. If you haven't checked out
The Wicked Library yet, you're missing out! It features established and up and coming authors, and the host
Nelson W. Pyles is simply to die for! >:)
ENJOY the bizarro horror of THE RIGHT STUFF, which was written as a follow-up to
Michael A Arnzen's "The Curse of Fat Face." And don't forget to comment!!
THE RIGHT STUFF
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 two girls in her gym class, she stayed on the lookout for the next great stuffing. So far, socks, peaches, even jumbo jawbreakers she’d won in a David Hyde Pierce lookalike contest, had failed her. The closest she came to normality was in pudding-filled balloons, but something about them never felt right.
It seemed, for Flat-Chested Charrie, beauty would never be abreast. She would never have a boyfriend. She would never know how it felt to be suckled by a man as that feisty goat at the 4H fair had suckled her three years before (and once last year). Staring at her naked body, at ecru nipples that receded into themselves when faced with their reflection, Charrie pondered what she could fix.
She’d always been a skinny thing. Too skinny. Maybe all she needed was some more meat on her bones.
For the next several weeks, no food would be 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, her chins mocking the rigidity of other chins. They waved like a pond struck by a pebble, her cheeks echoing the splash. But as voluptuous as she became, as many ferris wheels she caused to be decommissioned with her girder-bending heft, Flat-Chested Charrie remained flat-chested. In fact, what breasts she had took a tip from her nipples and retreated inward. The empty skin on her chest sagged, cold and lonely as slaughterhouse cattle.
Clearly, gaining mass wasn’t the answer.
Charrie jogged every day to drop the weight, but stubborn lumps clung to her bones in the worst places. She had one mushy hip, a chunky ribcage, and an apron of dimpled skin sagging over her crotch that refused to depart.
To distract herself, she returned to her search for the perfect stuffing. She’d never been a garish girl, but she grew to love bra ornaments as an option. Prettier than pudding, they offered the illusion of firm, perky bosoms. Threading the hooks through her shy nipples proved tricky, but with large green and red balls dangling from her chest, 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 one problem.
When Charrie exercised, the plastic rubbed against her sweaty chest, causing staccato squeaks. Other female joggers stared at her in disgust. It was unfair, as the stares she gave them were out of admiration. How lovely 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 a neighboring house.
As she was drawn to the window, her chest squeaked out a warning, but the jar of jelly on the other side spoke loudest. It beckoned her body, and promised her beauty.
“Can I help you?”
Charrie spun around to face ample breasts, their ivory skin prickled by the breeze. It took her longer to see the woman who wore them—Mrs. Face, the owner of the window made slimy by Flat-Chested Charrie’s drool. She didn’t know the woman well; just that she was over forty and lived alone. Looking at her 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, who fumbled for a lie that would get her closer to the glowing mush in the jar.
“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, dear. 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 Charrie nodded as she advanced on Mrs. Face, backing her up to the door. “Okay, I guess I have a few minutes to look through your catalog.”
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 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. Now, this is all that’s left of her.
Flat-Chested Charrie understood that desire too well. She figured it’s why the jar had captivated her with such intensity, bringing her to the conclusion that if she was ever to be beautiful, she had to help Fatima Face find beauty. The dream had torn poor Fatima apart; Charrie had to find a way for them to live their dreams together, lest she follow suit.
She was nothing if not a desperate girl. (She had Christmas ornaments hanging from her nipples, for Christ’s sake.) So, when she spotted the letter opener on the desk, and her mind churned with thoughts of Fatima’s pink stuffing, only 1% of her plan seemed like the most horrendous one ever.
“Where’s your catalog?” Mrs. Face asked.
“Can I have some orange juice or soda?”
“I think I have some milk.”
“Okay, but I need a whole glass.”
Mrs. Face didn’t try to hide rolling her eyes as she left. 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. With the letter opener clamped in her fingers, she gave the jar a good swirl.
Yes. It would work. All she had to do was make an incision.
The job was done by the time Mrs. Face entered the room. Holding the flaps below her clavicle closed, Chesty Charrie stood more confident than ever before, the empty jar lying at her feet. It filled with spilled milk when Mrs. Face dropped the glass on the floor, her eyes averted.
“Fatima…my God…” she mewled.
When she looked up again, her tears continued to fall, but they no longer fell heavy. There was a new levity in the woman, something that increased as Charrie neared.
“She’s so beautiful. You both are,” Mrs. Face whispered, beaming. “She’s bouncing with you, perky for once.”
When she embraced Charrie, a bit of Fatima squeezed out the incision. Yelping, she ran for her sewing kit. Once she’d sewn the flaps closed, and Chesty Charrie was well on her way to becoming a beautiful girl, Mrs. Face sat her down and thanked her. “You’ve made a sad woman’s dreams come true, dear. How can I repay you?”
“I’m the grateful one, Mrs. Face. 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…” Her eyes made the bulgy journey over Charrie’s body. “…Everything else.”
“What can I do?” she asked.
Mrs. Face lifted the letter opener, the metal gleaming between splotches of blood.
Through the extensive surgeries, Charrie bit her lip—until Mrs. Face removed it. After the sawing and scraping and slapping of one garbage heap to another, Charrie clung to her breasts, hoping for a perfect body at last. But when Mrs. Face set down the letter opener, she shook her head in disappointment.
“What’s wrong? Aren’t I beautiful?”
Mrs. Face picked up the empty jar Fatima’s body had once called home. Charrie didn’t have time to question it before the woman slammed it against her head.
She awoke flat-chested again, her flesh torn open in threaded tabs that wept onto the pavement. It took her several minutes to realize that the flaps on her chest had been removed completely, the muscle beneath shredded. As bosomy joggers bounced past, Charrie sat up and looked to Mrs. Face’s house. Through the window, she saw Fatima’s mother set her daughter back on the mantle. As the jar was gone, the pink goo was no longer visible, but Fatima was still on display—as the stuffing in a globe of skin, accented with inverted nipples.
Flat-Chested Charrie’s quest for beauty had ended. When it came down it, there wasn’t enough human gelatin in the world.
REMEMBER THE SPOOKTACULAR PRIZES
I have THREE PRIZES up for grabs. One lucky hopper will win an ebook copy of DEATH BY DRIVE-IN at the end of the hop just for commenting. That's all it takes. Just stop in and say hi. Tell me you dig the post. Tell me you hate the post. Tell me your mom held you too much (or not enough) when you were a baby. It doesn't matter. Just comment. I will pick one person at random to receive the ebook.
The next few prizes are a bit trickier. But that's because the prizes are
AUTOGRAPHED PRINT COPIES of Jessica McHugh books.
The first is a copy of my dystopian novel
The second is a LIMITED EDITION 1ST PRINTING of my bestselling novel
I have the only remaining copies of this book, so once they're gone, they're gone.
And you can win one!
So HOW do you win one? Well, there are two ways.
OR
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