He counts, whispering to himself, “One . . . two . . . three . . . one . . . two . . . three . . . ” keeping the rhythm of the dance from his dark corner. A motionless statue, high in the unlit loft, looking down upon the grand masquerade ball below, he sits, his face frozen in a hideous snarl. “One . . . two . . . three . . . ” he keeps the count. On they twirl, alive, with moving, writhing limbs. He, with envy, watches the dancers, a grotesque without joints.
Drabble: The Grotesque
Tale Told 