More Flesh. More Bone.

Bracing himself, and ignoring the insistent tapping outside, our writer friend pulls himself to the desk (again).

Why do I do this? It's a fool's errand. Only a very stupid intelligent person would do this...

The machine in front of him sits silent and empty. Still, a bulging sense of growling hunger emanated from it.

It's smaller, now, than it was in years gone by. Soon, it would be pocket-size. Yet it was, if anything, even hungrier.

The tapping is louder now, accompanied by grumbling and rustling.

Why

(He readied the blade)

Why do I, though

(took a breath, grimaced)

Why did I ever!

(groaned, and, ok, yes, splashed)

Who would-

(set his slippery fingers to the keys, and worked fast, leaning into the ache of it, gathering momentum...)

That used to be it. That used to be all he had to do.

It was a pretty big all.

He peers under the desk, where the modern attachment hunched. Bits of nails and bone bob about in the blood. It resembles a grotesque soup. The mixture goes gloop.

Just as a French onion soup has a slice of toasted sourdough and Gruyere floating on the top, this one has a strip of human skin.

Lacerated and bleeding, the writer rests his hands for a moment. The susurration at the window swells, impatient. It has grown a keen and aggressive edge since he sat down.

He scrapes his chair back. Unhooks the vile little collection chamber under his desk, and carries it to the window. He staggers. Limps. When he gets there, he struggles with the lock and latch, because his fingers are slimy with the stuff.

He has to be quick, because they will surge forward the moment the window-

quick quick quick!

Uptilted faces painted with naked hunger, and grasping hands reaching, like a ghastly Mexican wave.

He dips his hand into the slop and scoops out the solid chunks, scattering them like a children's performer scatters sweeties.

There's a surge and a scramble. He heaves the pot, sending a torrent of red over their heads. It breaks apart into droplets, and rains down on the crowd.

He wonders if his stories would be better if he poured all that juice into them, but then, even if they were, who would read them? Without this scattering of himself, without this taste, would they hunger for his soul between their hands?

It's hard to hunger for something you don't know exists.

Maybe it would it would stay on a shelf, untouched by greedy eyes and poking speculums, while his bank balance dwindled and his ribs protruded.

+

Thank you for reading!