A Regime of Marching Faceless by S.L. Edwards I’m far too afraid to wonder how they removed my face. This place is dark, full of hidden ovens. I know I have no face because I've seen the others, walking about with smooth, noseless mannequin heads. If I look carefully I can see the grey smoke poking through the corners of this dark place, the red light of hidden fires. When people vanish, we mutter to each other: “The fires opened up. And ate them whole.” When the fires emerge, some just stumble in. Before I can blink, the walls are closed and dark again. The screams from behind them sound as if coming from behind a gag, panicked and wild but somehow stifled. These tunnels beneath the city are always burning. In the world above, you can see their traces in the thick vapor pouring out from tall black towers, tombstone smokestacks that mark this network of secret factories.
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