THREADBARE By: Angel Zapata

Megan had sewn the devil into the hem of her dress. Time and again he attempted to tear free of the delicate fabric only to be thwarted by an impenetrable thread count. She was often seen in public squatting in front of town hall, pushing the material of her stained dress down between her legs, taunting the father of lies.

“They won’t say it’s me anymore,” she cackled. “You’ll be the one they blame.”

She was found lying unconscious in the woods several months earlier; the apparent victim of a sexual miscreant. Exposing one’s undergarments, regardless of intention or circumstance, was strictly forbidden by township decree. The farmer who had found her that morning referred to himself as a casualty of inadvertent harlotry.

It was a known fact that a woman carried within her the very nature of sin. A man could never be held accountable for actions performed under such duress. Nevertheless, the men of the village believed her stricken with madness and were uncharacteristically hesitant in accusing her of impropriety.

But the fine women of this rural community knew better. The law was the law. She had broken it without regard.

They bound her with think rope and dragged her up the courthouse steps. In the presence of the elected magistrate, and under extraordinary stimulation, Megan confessed to consorting with devils.

“Have mercy, sir,” she pleaded.

“Bah!” The magistrate intoned. “Shall we excuse blatant collaboration with the devil?”

“But I will have him brought under submission.”

“Oh,” the magistrate said flippantly. “How?”

“With a needle made of pure silver and the uncorrupted strands of hair plucked from a virgin’s head.”

“But for what ungodly use?” He brought down the gavel, passing swift judgment without providing opportunity for response. She was to receive twenty lashes in the town square and be imprisoned for thirty days. In other parts of the country she would have been put to death. But the magistrate refused to be associated with any semblance of uncivilized behavior.

After the blood had sufficiently dried on the whipping post, she was cast into the darkest hole of the penitentiary.

Prior to her court appearance, Megan had buried a sewing needle into the soft flesh between thumb and index finger of her left hand. Her niece had offered her own virtuous hair as a gift. She had also assisted in surreptitiously weaving it into Megan’s own hair with thin, seemingly imperceptible black ribbon.

The devil appeared to her on the sixth day. He dropped down into the dark recess of her confinement like a spider. On the thirty-first day, Megan resurfaced with the devil safely imprisoned in her filthy clothes.

A month later, any child who entered the woods alone after dark vanished without trace. The only evidence purporting foul play was the perfectly sewn dolls found swaddled in the individual beds of the missing children. They were fashioned from twigs and the bloodied rags of a former inmate’s uniform, and their tiny inanimate mouths were sewn shut.

It didn’t take long for the villagers to build a pyre in front of the courthouse. Megan was beaten and stripped of her clothing. None of the men turned away.

“Is it a sin to bear one’s body before the flames?” She asked the crowd, defiantly. “Will my ashes be enough to resurrect your dead children?”

She died screaming and writhing in the crackling inferno.

Steadily through the night, the crowd had grown weary of her suffering and had stumbled away unfulfilled. At morning’s light, when the last crumbling embers popped viciously in their hot coal basin, the magistrate located her discarded garments in the dirt.

“There you are little one,” he cooed, cutting loose the threaded hair binding the devil to the mutilated skirt. “You performed your duty well. Run along.”

The small devil wagged its prehensile tail like a monkey shaking off fleas. His father, the magistrate, watched his only son carefully bend his face into the ashes and gently lick the charred bones of a once sweet, young girl.

___

© 2008 Angel Zapata

Angel Zapata was born in NYC, but currently resides just outside of Augusta, Georgia. His flash fiction and poetry has appeared or is forthcoming on ShadeWorks, AlienSkin, Twisted Tongue and Anotherealm. He is husband to his lovely wife of two years and is also father of four hyperkinetic boys obsessed with all things ninja. For links to other published works, please visit: http://www.myspace.com/angeldzapata

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3 Responses to “THREADBARE By: Angel Zapata”

  1. Lori Titus Says:

    Excellent job! :)

  2. Bob Eccles Says:

    Wonderful story!

  3. Jamie Blair Says:

    This is a great piece! Love it!

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