flashquake Editor's Picks flashquake This story hints at startling possibilities, but leaves the reader enough latitude to let his or her imagination run wild. There's also the great use of language and a wonderful ending. I couldn't stop thinking about it. |
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From the window you measure the influx, mindless, like shiny stones in a stream. Your hand strays over the top of your lip; sweat-slick, your fingers brush the beads away. 
Your coworkers grumble over lunch, moan about the boss, the new management philosophy, the perfect striations of the artificial plants, the subliminal hum of the ultraviolet bulbs. All the while, your belly stutters, empty, churning around the healthy forkfuls of organic greens you've swallowed. A bite of whole-grain bread expands in your mouth, soaked in saliva, yeast-sweet and heavy. You consider your options, but you can't quite bring yourself to spit it out. What if it continued to grow? What if, in the huddled darkness of your lap, surrounded by the pulpy paper napkin and your hot, balled fist, the wet soggy mass discovered itself, found it had something to offer after all? These things happen. Random bits of DNA, proteins, sugars, the right circumstances. The motion is subtle, a muffled cough, but you manage. Your left hand rests on the table, fingers picking at the edges of a label. You're not really considering snatching that sneezed-in tissue, that bit of chewed fingernail your co-worker slipped under the corner of her plate. Still, the genetics are tempting. It could become something special, couldn't it? Not like a child, of course, not a person at all; but maybe not something completely unlike you, either. It might have teeth and thick red hair; eyes, limbs, a heart that beats. Your fist pulses around the possibilities hidden beneath the table, a steady rhythm. You feed the dream. The conversation moves forward without you, like time, like your lover. Chairs scrape across tile squares, screech under the weight of so many broken promises, alerting you to the end of the hour. You smile, shake your head, toss the uneaten remains of your lunch into the bin. You wash your hands, careful to keep your secret concealed within your sleeve. Already it's grown, become more than you hoped for, more than you expected. It rides beneath your ribs, tucked under the bulk of your woolen sweater, sheltered from the evening chill. The train streams forward, fluid, like a trance; across the aisle a young woman drowses, dark hair falling forward, her face in shadow. She makes you wonder. Home now, the being inside your sweater begins to take shape. Soft and round, it gurgles, nudges downy nubs toward your breast. Webby, not-quite-fingers open and close, demanding; warm rivers run from your nipples. It slides a tentative limb lower, like a tail, or the ribbon of a kite. It follows the tide, seeking the folds of your belly where the milk pools. You want to take a picture, a dozen pictures, a thousand. You build the memories, knowing the moment won't last. The mewing slows, breath finds its own rhythm and curls in the hollow of your chest. You sleep, and name your dream Desire. |
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