The Last Of One
Amy was the last of one; a curse that plagued her all herlife, a terrible portent of doom that flew aroundabouts her shoulder like a Death Head moth, swollen to the size of her ego.
Somedays, the curse would drag her down, making her bones brittle or her eyes fudge. Othertimes, it skipped happily beside her, giving her some kind of divine purpose (to defeat, to overcome - her favourite words) and an oddly detached worldview and an odd edge on the competition.
"The way they pile up those bodies... it's so lacking in art. Someone should drop these guys the number of a decent cinematographer... even a set-dresser would come up with somthing better than...this."
In the line for the World's Most Beautiful Female, at a Sunnyiest Hostel (Chain of Pliers and Kings), somewhere east of Machen, Gwent she fancied her chances in a round of complex chessmoves, done on a lifesize board in honour of the Mayor's Harry Potter fixations (right down to the lightning shaped scar she'd had henna'd for the Ball)
But uglypup Suzy, surrounded/followed by a whole field of butterflies, won without even opening her mouth by laying out the entire contents of her handbag and her ribcage on the altar (wallpaper table, £16.99 B&Q) for all to see.