I went with the genre-blend generator today to choose what sort of story we’d be writing. I like the horror-Pygmalion direction that I took with my story, but I’m wondering how much creepier I could have made it if I’d written from the sculpture’s point of view.
Charater: Art Student
Object: Glue
Genre: Horror/Romance
Rebecca sat on the floor in the art building, the clay and wire that was becoming her sculpture littered the floor around her; disembodied hands and feet, a hollow torso with arms, and a head waited to be assembled onto the legs. The florescent lights flickered and though they lit the room, they did little to dispel the darkness outside. She shivered, she hated being alone here at night, she always thought she heard something whispering around the corner.
She’d call her suitemate, Joe to come walk back with her. She was looking for her cell phone, when she heard a scratching behind her, she froze, and she heard it again. It wasn’t an around-the-corner sound this time. It really was right behind her. “Joe? Is that you?”
“Joe?” whispered the voice. “Maybe, that’s the name you think of when you make me.”
She turned, and the clay face of her sculpture turned to stare at her. It was smiling.
“Don’t be afraid.”
“How are you alive?” her voice was shaking.
“You made me with love and passion. How could I not be alive?”
The sculpture began to crawl on its forearms toward her. She backed away. Where was her phone?!
“Don’t come any closer…” She brushed passed a table, and she grabbed distractedly at a small canister of glue that sat on top of it.
“But you want Joe to come closer…” It whispered as it pulled itself across the cement floor.
She threw the can of glue at the face she’d so painstakingly formed. It sank into the cheek, deforming the mouth and nose. She turned and ran.
It swiped her ankle with a handless forearm. She fell to the ground. She screamed as the cold clay monstrosity pulled its face toward hers.
“He’s not here, but I am…” it slurred around the glue can.
There was pounding on the door, and the glass cracked and shattered. Joe ran in, he pulled Rebecca to her feet, and together they stomped on the clay figure on the floor. It continued twitching until it resembled nothing more than a formless lump of clay.
Joe told her, “I was wondering where you were, you forgot your cell in the room, so I came up to walk you back.”
“I’m so glad you did.” She was clinging to his arm. “Let me just grab my bag, I have an important question to ask you about us.”
Later when they got back to their suite, now a happy couple. She reached into her bag, and screamed again, as cold clay fingers clutched at hers with a crushing grip.