Love, Death, and Body Horror

Hello! We’re back this week. Let’s get some business out of the way:

1. Quick trigger warning for this issue. As the title implies, there’s body horror content that may be unpleasant to read or imagine. If you’re sensitive to that, please skip or tread lightly with “And I Must Scream.” It’s not my usual brand, so I feel it’s important to call it out.

2. As I said before, I want to create a buffer of content. These microfiction issues are (slightly) easier to do that for, so I’ll be starting there. That means I won’t be doing any Quick as a Flash issues for a bit. I do think that’ll mean more consistent The MicroFiction Roundup issues, though.

3. Speaking of Quick as a Flash, my mind keeps going back and forth on what to do with the Power Play series (On Golden Wings, What She Would Have Wanted) and whether it should continue to live within the Quick as a Flash issues or be its own thing. Your answer to the following poll would be very helpful in figuring things out:

On to the stories!

Here’s the thing about dating as a telepath. It’s not about learning the gory details of a prospective partner’s private life before you’re ready. It’s listening to the person’s mental acoustics, their cerebral ramblings, and asking yourself: can I handle a future full of this?

“Allow me to get your luggage,” the bellhop said.

“No need,” said the witch, toeing the trunk with disdain.

Legs sprouted from holes in the trunk’s base. Reluctantly, it scuttled up the steps.

“Neat! How about your husband and his belongings?”

She smiled knowingly. “He’s already up there.”

“Your lunch,” they said, placing a silver cloche in front of the patient.

“Fancy,” she wheezed. “But I’m afraid I can’t keep food down anymore.”

“Try,” they urged. “I think you’ll like it.”

She removed the lid. A single white lily greeted her. She looked up at Death and smiled.

“Thank you.”

Umbral Cafe opened well after the moon rose and closed the instant a beam of sunlight pierced the horizon. It kept its lights dimmed and its employees identified only by glow-in-the-dark bracelets. Strangely enough, none of this was an issue.

For you see, the Umbral Cafe’s clientele was made up of hopelessly romantic night owls craving to have their coffee shop meet-cute. A five-star experience consisted of ordering a (room temperature) coffee, ramming into a prospective significant other, and apologizing profusely as you both helped pick up each other’s belongings, an accidental caress of fingers sending sparks down spines.

My jaw dropped to the floor. Literally. Skin and sinew surrounding joints gave way, and I’m staring at my unhinged body part, tongue flapping uselessly. I scream, for that’s all I can do. Then I realize I can touch my tongue to my own neck, feeling stubble prick a muscle it was never meant to touch, and I double the volume on my wails.

It’s when my throat starts to blister that I notice it: the little thew left on my jaw had shifted, forming fleshy wings. They flapped, and the bone rose into the air, leaving me for good.