Nightmare Fuel 2018 - Day the First!

It's that time again! Daily Flash Fiction through the month of October, sometimes dark, sometimes creepy. The estimable Bliss Morgan as usual hosts it here, on the Google+ social network. Yes, Google+ is still a thing.

Here's my first, as I start getting into it. We'll see how many we get this year.

Like a Japanese Girl

"Draw me like one of your Japanese girls."

She knew it was a corny line, but knew his type. The kind of guy who insisted that he read manga, not comic books. The kind who went to Aikido class three days a week, who insisted he knew what "ki" is. The guy whose prize possession is that Yoshitako Amano book he got the author to sign. Yeah, that book by the mainstream western author.

That type of guy.

Image from Lustige Blätter,circa 1899

She also knew that, as easily mistaken for a white-bread suburban American as she was, she fit the type. Straight black hair. Fair skin. What else did he really need? She knew his type, she could smell desperation.  To be fair, she could fit quite a few types.

So he went home, studied his manga-not-comics, scoured the web for drawings.

On the first day, he came to her studio apartment. He drew her as a schoolgirl, starched white blouse, pleated skirt, maryjanes. Her hair playful bound in pigtails, a playful smile on her face. Smooth penstrokes, her face youthful and vulnerable. She shook her head. '

"I'm not that kind of Japanese girl," she giggled. She kissed his cheek, invited him back the next day.

So he went home, took the book of court photos from his bookcase and studied.

On the second day he came to her studio apartment. He drew her as a geisha, her kimono poorly tied with a too-long obi. He never did get the hang of drawing knots. Her eyes narrow, her hair done up high. His penstrokes were long and languid, with flourishes meant to hint at whatever design the kimono would have; he wasn't sure on that either. She shook her head,

"no, no, no. I'm not that kind of Japanese girl either. You get one more try." She sighed sadly, kissed him lightly on the lips, bade him return the next day.

So he went home, one more time. He studied reproduction woodblock prints of demons and devils.

On the third day he came to her studio apartment. He drew her as a monster, her nude body hidden behind a mound of skulls, her eyes a touch mad. His pen skipped across her face, barely outlining it, but lingering over the skulls. He drew her hair down, weaving between the mound of skulls like a river. She shook her head,

"I suppose I'm not a Japanese girl after all." she whispered as she lead him to her bed, silently. The next words she spoke - as if the time between hadn't passed at all - were barely a whisper, all breath and no voice, "but I am a monster."

Truth be told, he wasn't a meal worth savoring, but was a meal nonetheless. She briefly considered keeping his skull, but she had enough already.