Plucked

One.

Two.

Three.

The little people are thrown from their village. Sitting there; vulnerable.

Four.

Five.

Six.

They scream in pain as their feet are ripped from the ground by giant, foreign tweezers.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

Their limp bodies start to litter the cold, hard floor. They scatter around their murderer.

Ten.

Eleven.

Twelve.

A thicker villager is plucked, and its body enters the killer's mouth. The teeth grinding it to small, straw-like pieces.

Thirteen.

Fourteen.

Fifteen.

Children are spared, but their parents aren't so lucky. The children have been orphaned. They have time to grow; to end up like their parents.

Sixteen.

Seventeen.

Eighteen.

More helpless people are put in the murderer's mouth, swirling on her tongue.

Nineteen.

Twenty.

Twenty-one.

Small, empty patches have begun to form, leaving bald fields.

Twenty-two.

Twenty-three.

Twenty-four.

The mangled bodies slide down the killer's throat, tickling it.

Twenty-five.

The killer stops. She doesn't pull out another body. She falls and weeps in the pile of hair she has just plucked from her head. She realizes she has to wear her hair in a certain style until the bald spot fills up.

In a pit of frustration, she yanks out clumps of her hair and lets it fall onto her bedroom floor. She moves on. Grabbing a pair of tweezers, she starts on her next pick of victims--her eyelashes.

One.

Two.

Three.

The stress has got to me.