She was a sculptor. She knew flesh. Or rather, she knew how to make stone and plaster pretend to be flesh. For fifteen years, she had chiseled cold breasts, sanded smooth marble buttocks, and lacquered the rigid perfection of women who would never sag, never weep, never rot. Her gallery called it “Neo-Classical Eternity.” Her critics called it “fear of the womb.” She called it Tuesday.
Not a body. Not a sculpture.
The landlord broke the door down on day ten. He found a fine, dark loam spread across the floor, a faintly sweet smell, and in the center, the clay wheel still spinning. Thanatomorphose.2012.DVDRip.x264-RedBlade