Danse Macabre
Not everyone likes historical statues of corpses – flash horror fiction.
On their first date, she had taken the unilateral decision to change his appearance. All it took was a toe dipped in the pellucid pool of his self-conscious eyes: just the right temperature, just the right bank account balance. In the same way she would have trimmed an overgrown topiary in her dream garden, she had his head shaved, and dictated every item of his wardrobe, keeping a last snip of shears to even out his manhood. He, the accessory, her, from now on, the rich man. Cha-ching. Her house matched her subsidized business venture; whimsical. Her dog matched her husband; docile. She left nothing to chance in the aesthetics of her life. For this reason, the delivery of the Transi took her by surprise.
Unpacked in the middle of her living room, the almost life-size figure stood on a plinth, poised in what she initially identified as a selfie position, neck tendons taut toward the object in its gracefully extended skeletal arm, immortalizing the tattered skin gaping open on its ribcage, before falling to shreds on either side of a ludicrous loincloth. She would definitely not have ordered this monstrosity.
This thing pressed its decomposed hand on its heart; could it reference the French saying ‘transi d’amour’, lovesickness, till death do us apart, or some other sappy metaphor? Had her marital puppet overstepped the bounds of romantic gestures, showing his first signs of senility? A glance at the inscription on the plinth dispelled that maudlin hypothesis: “Behold, I was as you are, and you will be as I am.”
The insult elicited a shrill brat-like cry. Yelling the names of her assistants, she rushed to her mirror, oblivious of her unironic replication of the statue’s satirical vanity. She pinched the flesh of her chin (where the hell were these lethargic airheads? She paid them too much), studying the thickness of her raven-wing hair (they had not taken their day-off at the same time, surely! Were they even allowed to have days-off?). In the silent house, she took off her glasses, fluttered her eyelashes like a debutante, plastered a standoffish grin on her face, and put the glasses back on to hunt for any wrinkles. A murmur, behind her: memento mori. Another scream sprung from her throat. Still alone, she checked her phone and her computer for video ads hidden in the hems of open pages and apps, but found nothing. She glared at the horrid artwork, and covered it with a plaid; her incompetent employees had to get rid of it ASAP.
All that ridiculous stress had given her a migraine, and she decided to lie down for a while. She drifted into somnolence when a melody brought her back to the surface. She strained her ears, yet the house produced no sound, not even the click of her dog’s claws on the terrace. And yet, she had heard it. Tuneful. Medieval. Nerves like tangled balls of wool, she checked the clock: her husband should have been home by now. Her assistants should be busy helping her. The dog…
She slid open the patio door, and the sandy Labrador wagged its tail, head tilted affectionately toward someone behind her. Expecting to find her mate, she nearly fell on the floor upon discovering the Transi, uncovered. Empty sockets stared at her. Empty hand outstretched towards her in a macabre invitation. The tune bellowed at the back of her mind.
She fled in her garden, but stopped dead in her tracks in front of the swimming pool. On the sun loungers, arms crossed peacefully, the emaciated corpses of the hubby and assistants. Long worms wriggled out of the girls’ open ribs, while the smooth skin of her partner’s skull hung over his cranium like an ill-fitted garment; not up to her standards. On the tiles at her feet, claws had carved a message: “The one who sows in flesh reaps in bones.” The music became deafening, a mocking minuet from a spectral orchestra. Behind her, the lawn vibrated under an impious motion, and in the pool’s water, she saw the reflection of her dog, skipping around the Transi, this one twerking heartily.
Compressing a spasm in her cheek with her manicured hand, she searched who to call, who to pay to make this infernal vision disappear. The twitching shifted to her hips. A wealthy and idolized woman like her… a stroke was treatable. Nothing the best doctors could not fix. Her heels beat in time. From her high standing, nothing could touch her. She brought back her upstart smile, but it crumbled to dust when the great social equalizer’s bony arm slipped under hers, dragging her into a frenzied boogie.
Text all rights reserved © Saint-Lazare, 2026. This flash fiction belongs to the series ‘Tales of Artistic Horror’, inspired by real historical artworks or artistic trends. Subscribe for more! And don’t forget to like & restack to beat the machine.
IMPORTANT INFORMATION:
In decades of writing I have never even thought to use other tools to help me writing than an English (yeah I’m an English second-language writer) and synonym dictionary. If some humans out there felt the need to use a machine to produce what they call their writing to ease some insecurities, that was their problem until they made it everybody’s problem with AI witch-hunting weaponized by greedy platforms. So I won’t willingly feed my human writing to AI to prove some petty and jealous people that I, indeed, worked my ass off to write my texts by myself. And if you still feel the need to be a petty and jealous individual and scan my text with that self-own of a tool, here’s what you are allowing it to swallow:
Wow. This is piece is crawling with atmosphere, simply loved it. 🌹
So fun!!! Let’s boogie!