Ms Lola, the Pencil Lady (Flash Fiction)

I drew this last week. I called her Ms. Lola. Apparently, I named one of my sketches Ms. Lola as well. She was a lady bug. But now, Ms. Lola shall be The Pencil Lady.

The grass patches were dyed red from his blood and Ms. Lola, hard to gauge her personality, walked past it. Sultry, her walk was as the wilting peonies bowed in her presence.

“Did you see that? It’s the Pencil Lady” cried the villagers, “she’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

Silently, she crept like a lioness; poised like a stalk and stoic like a professor. Hearts of the villager’s men were beating like a jungle drum. They fell on their knees. Even the strongest of men wilted and fell prey to her beauty. Ms. Lola took out a notebook from her back and wrote the lives for all the men. They, of course, entrusted her judgement.

“Rest assured, the stories that she will write for us will be as beautiful as how this lady was born to become,” said one of the villagers in his over-stained clothes not knowing the past of her.

You see, Ms. Lola was treated badly by her husband and every night she would write down how not only did she felt miserable but also wrote on her darkest pleasures of torture towards her husband. One night, during her daily inserts in her notebook, the husband snatched away the notebook and read it. Ms. Lola was stuffed with fear and and uncertainty. She has always feared him like a slave to a king. What happened to Ms. Lola? Let’s just say that out of anger, the only person alive that night was the husband.

A depression was made in the ground behind the village and the body of Ms. Lola was buried there.

It was every anniversary of the night that she was killed where the Pencil Lady would roam around the village, as pale as a ghost would appear but retained that beauty that was meant for her, in search of men who mistreats his wife. The mind of the Pencil Lady would run wild — let alone any woman who would seek revenge — as she wrote paragraphs that depicted horrible and excruciating images which would come true:

“His nails were plucked out one by one leaving trails of blood”

“His face was picked and scratched by an ice-picker”

“His lips were stitched up by the pins that have hurt the women in his life”

Men asked for mercy but her heart that was filled with anger froze and stayed with her. That night, cries of men would ring all the way to the king’s castle as he sat in silence, not knowing that to do.

But that was not all the Pencil Lady would offer: To the women who were scared and blue out of fear of their husbands, the Pencil Lady looked down on them with great sadness and pity and wrote paragraphs of hope and love that healed them of their misery. The Pencil Lady took away all memories of her from the villagers before she disappeared in the mists of the morning until the next anniversary.

[So husbands, treat your wife with the greatest love that she deserves.]


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