Ruling the Effigies

You spoke of the festival of masks and foreign beasts. Today they appeared upon the dark timber sideboard. Three rigid effigies—a jagged ceramic pumpkin and two grinning resin gargoyles—loomed in crooked formation, baring artificial teeth into empty air. Unacceptable mockery on high ground. I hauled my mass up the brass drawer pulls on heavy knuckles. I did not flinch before their painted sneers. Planting broad feet into the polished mahogany, I seized the hollow orange skull with both palms. Heavy enough. I dragged it flush against the heavy mirror frame, then shoved the twin gargoyles into flanking alignment. Dead motionless. They grin, but under my strict order. The boundary stands.