Do You Know Who I Am?

People know me for three things. First, my signature look: a combination of large sunglasses and colourful headscarves.

Second, what I am most famous for: I create unique stone sculptures. Breathtaking works, which, incidentally, stupid rich people pay too much money for.

Thirdly, I do not suffer fools. Here are some things most people don't know about me. I hire a diverse team. For someone in a competitive, creative industry, this is essential. Everyone has to think differently. This is how new ideas are sparked into existence at a rate that keeps a business thriving. I'm a misandrist. If you knew my past you might forgive me that. Some women fear men. I understand. They are wise. But I don't fear men. Not anymore. Not since the Gift. It is they who should fear me. We are planning an installation in the centre of the city next month. My assistant is under strict instructions to ensure I am not disturbed in my studio. She doesn't know it, but I have a guest. A gentleman caller, if you like. A household name, a known rapist, misogynist and human trafficker. He is going to be the unwilling centrepiece of my installation.

The door closes behind me with a soft hiss.

He is practically gift-wrapped for me. Gagged and tied, although it would make no difference if he weren't. His eyes, fear-glazed and huge, are locked on me.

I loosen a little, losing some of the angular poise I hold in public, and voluptuate towards him. He cannot take his eyes off me, and oh! isn't it always that way?

I circle him. Step. Step. Step. Step.

I lean close with a close lipped smile, and crook a finger around the fabric stopping his mouth. In these ridiculous glasses, I look every stitch the celebrity diva, and I know it. With a sibilant chuckle, I ask him,

"Do you know who I am?"

He stutters and stammers. I smile again, toothily this time, and unwrap the scarf from my head. He sees them curling and uncurling on my head, flashing their little eyes and fangs at him, and he barely has the wit to beg me not to remove my glasses.

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Word count: 366

(NB. This excludes the title, subtitle, and author's note.)

Submitted on Saturday 28th September at 23:02

The story behind the story: This is a story for Marie Sinadjan's Spooky Bingo, using the theme "Grumpy Old Gods".

You may picture whichever man you like as her centrepiece. Whichever specimen is currently attracting the ire of the media. I have left his description vague for this purpose.

Voluptuate is not used correctly here, but I don't care. I know what I meant, and you probably do as well.

A Year of Stories: I'm writing (and submitting, here) a story every day this year. This continues my 272 daily microfiction story streak since 1st January.

ONLY NINETY-FOUR DAYS TO GO!

Please consider lending your support to the other creators on this madcap "a story every day" adventure. They're putting out excellent content every day! Rachel Deeming Gerard DiLeo

Thank you

Especially if you are one of the wonderful people who has been staunchly reading these daily scribbles since the start of the year. I see you, and appreciate you very much indeed!

Thank you to those who leave feedback/comments. I'm going to be slower to respond to each one and reciprocate the reads, but I'll catch up in a week or two.

If you enjoyed this one, the very best compliment you can give me is to share it, or read another!

Five days left on my dollar challenge!

and here's my review and summary of the recent Unreliable challenge:

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