To Slay with a Thousand Kisses

Her age was impossible to say, for her face was crusted with muck and roots. Her teeth were like kernels of mottled corn. She was naked, her skin textured like stone, gray and gravelly. Wet, bulbous mushrooms grew in the moss around her womanly crevice. Her reek nearly brought me to my knees.

Her tongue was a grave-worm tunneling into me, befouling me.
The Motor, the Mirror, the Mind

When you sat down so suddenly, the movement caused an infinitesimal trauma to the flesh in your head. In that chaos, a few of the tiny creatures that compose your brain were killed. Are you sad for them? Or do you only care about them so long as they provide you with movement, emotions, the mirrors that reflect my mind in yours?

Whether we see visions in mirrors or hear voices in warbling electrical static, we must always interpret, extrapolate, confabulate.
Audio Fiction Podcast:
Shatterach Gates
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It roars, shuddering the stone, and I imagine three thousand corpse voices in shrieking harmony.