Workship

The empress towers above us, her mammoth curves blocking the sun's light. We labor in shadow, pushing her cuticles back with dull scythes, buffing paint from her nails with acetone-soaked towels. Demarcus faints from the vapors. I revive him with a quick slap. 'Wake up, fool. It's time to harvest the nail.'

 In a few hours the sun will crest, and work will become impossible. 'Marcus.' He rattles his skull around in his head for a moment, then picks up his end of the timber saw, muttering under his breath. 

It takes us half an hour to get through the foot-thick keratin on her big toe, pulling back and forth against each other with the weathered longsaw. When it falls with a loud crack, we pause for water and admire its abalone underside. 'Better than last month, eh?' I ask, noting the deep burgundy in the pearled curve. 'Shit, better than all last year,' Demarcus snorts. 'If we can get these clippings past the guards, we'll make a goddamn fortune.' 

In another hour we have finished the toenails of her left foot, with the sun threatening to crest. We rush through the right foot in silence, our arms like pink pistons, blurry in the gathering light. As the sun peaks, Demarcus is finishing the final buff, cursing with spite. I load our cargo into the wagon, surprised by its weight, and pause to finger the iridescent pits that flare now in the noon light. Looking up at the blinding halo ringing the empress's silhouette, I smile, running my tongue over my teeth. The guards will be asleep any minute now. We only have to wait.

And then the long walk home, down the sweating gravel streets. 

And after that, the feast.