For hjcallipygian: Eating-her-lunch-and-drinking-from-a-soda-bottle Drusilla
195 words, PGish.

Eating-Her-Lunch-And-Drinking-From-A-Soda-Bottle Drusilla

The moon was high in the night sky, the darkness half wasted, and still Drusilla had not lunched. She slipped through the darkness, swimming through the shadow like a shark searching for her prey.

Hinx, minx, the old witch winks, the fat begins to fry.

And then she saw it: a 24-hour convenience store, a glistening pearl in a sea of black, and out walked her prey, a woman in a red dress carrying a brown paper bag. The princess of Arabia.

Nobody at home but Jumping Joan, Father, Mother and I.

Snicker-snack! The princess fell, and Arabia's glass towers shattered until only one was left--soft to the touch, not glass at all but the magic material of a scientist's cauldron. Drusilla took Arabia into herself, and she was nourished.

Stick, stock, stone dead, blind man can't see.

Tentatively, she picked up the plastic bottle and brought it to her lips. Memories exploded on her tongue: begging for peppermint drops as a child, the licorice Angelus would give her when he'd whipped her, the candy store massacres of '49. Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a cheat.

Every knave will have a slave, you or I must be he.

"Ooh, sweet," she whispered.




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