The Faceless

Bob Schofield
Jul 20, 2016 · 1 min read

after Stranger Things

He arrived without a face so I said Take mine I’m not using it anyway. Together we used salad forks to pry the screws out. We laid it upside down beneath the old grey tree. From then on I was a kind of stone walking on stilt legs. I drifted from my school to my home and back again, asking myself what I should do now that my lips were far away. Bruised and buried by a stranger. Learning to bloom beneath fine blue moss. I wondered who, if anyone, would wish to kiss me in my current condition? And what would they taste like? And if they found me one night, curled like a bean within the walls of their bedroom, might they ask me to stay?

Weird

Everyone else’s stories and ideas

Bob Schofield

Written by

writer of words. cartoonist of cartoons. sleeper of sleeps.

Weird

Weird

Everyone else’s stories and ideas

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