R.C. Weissenberg is a writer and artist who spends most of his time in the Southwestern United States. He enjoys sketching, playing guitar, and, most of all, reading obsessively.
Matter
She stood on the upraised platform in the crowded room, wearing a yellow dress. On a table before her lay a frightening lump of flesh, squirming left and right, but unable to shift its position.
“A garish color,” someone in the crowd said.
She pulled a knife from somewhere behind her and held it up to catch and radiate the single focused light.
“You’d think she’d have an advisor,” another person commented.
She held the knife still.
“Or at least a mirror.”
She plunged the knife into the sudden writhing mass. Blood sprayed onto her dress, but little of it reached the audience.
“Red on yellow’s even worse.”
She held the mass down with her left hand and plucked out the knife. The glob squirmed pathetically. Then she stabbed it once more.
“Complete lack of taste.”
She stabbed it again.
“Vulgar.”
Again.
“It’s discouraging,” somebody said.
She stabbed the mass until its slightest twitching ceased. Without cleaning her hands, she picked up the hunk of flesh and tossed it into the crowd, where somebody caught it.
“I hope the next one’s better dressed,” someone said.
She left the stage to mix with the crowd.
“That’s what matters,” came a faint reply.