Peter Lorre

You wear a peasant's blouse, white, with a floor-length grey skirt. Your black hair falls in curls to your shoulders. I am in a ridiculous outfit, an amalgam of as many Eastern European costumes as possible. I know you understand. I know you do not care. I know this, somehow, without speaking. For we cannot speak. We stand in the grey, low-roofed inn, side by side, staring dully at the bearded professor and his beautiful daughter. Garlic hangs from the rafters, white garlic, but there is no smell. We stand, our arms against each other, staring at them. We do not listen to what they say. We do not speak their language. We do not speak any language. We look up at the ceiling, which causes a wolf to howl somewhere in the woods. The wolves know when we look up. We look back down. Our faces contort into poor parodies of fear. We turn and scurry out the rear door that leads nowhere. Your skirt brushes against my leg. It feels like a feather. We do not hear the hideous snorting laughter which comes from the stock shot of the castle. We do not see the castle. We have left.
Jason Corley -- corleyj@cobweb.scarymonsters.net