Residue
By
Laura Shell
He slept that limbo sleep, the place between awake and rest, because of the residue on his lips that made him tongue them and rock his head back and forth and moan in confusion. He dreamt of glazed donuts.
The thick, meniscus gook tasted sweet and salty, and when it entered his mouth, it coated his teeth, and as he chewed, it became like paste, and gagged him. He immediately woke, sat straight up in bed, spat out the intrusive clump of whateveritwas.
That's when he noticed the goo was not only on his lips. It covered his arms, his hands, his fingers. He looked down. Even in the darkness of his bedroom, he knew it was on his bare chest, shoulders, and stomach—that dense, gooey slime, at least a half-inch thick.
He got out of bed and turned on the light. Yep, it was all over him, from his toes to his hairline.
He looked at his bed. Strange that the mess had adhered to his body and hadn't touched his sheets, blanket or pillow. It stuck only to him.
"What the fuck?"
But why and how? And where had it come from?
The residue began to move. Around his rib cage, to his back. It stretched across his jawline, forcing a wide, unnatural smile, and fused at the back of his neck, then relaxed. That's when he realized it was a being of its own. Sentient? Again, where had it come from? But was that important right now? How the fuck was he going to get it off him? That seemed more dire.
With the fingers of his right hand, he latched onto a chunk of it on his left forearm and pulled up. And that hurt like hell. The residue was fixed to his flesh.
Panic set in like a thousand butterflies flapping in his chest. His breath quickened. "Jesus Christ."
His wife entered the room and stood before him with her arms crossed. She smiled. "Looks like you have a little problem."
He knew. She had done this, created this, somehow. But why?
As the residue tightened around him, squeezed him, forcing all the breath from his lungs, he opened his mouth wide, gasping for air that wouldn't come.
The residue slinked from his flesh and dashed into his mouth, down his throat, into his stomach, filling him. Turning him.
He stood still for a moment, just stared at her. Strange thoughts came to him, ones he'd never entertained. He knew all at once what she wanted and needed.
He picked up the dirty clothes from the floor and put them in the hamper.
He made the bed.
He took out the trash.
Then he asked his wife, "Is there anything specific you want me to cook for dinner?"
For the first time in a very long while, she hugged him.
Laura Shell has been published in NUNUM, Typishly, Maudlin House, and many others. Her first anthology of paranormal stories, The Canine Collection, was released this year. She's a prolific writer and submitter of flash fiction, and the Editor-in-Chief of the Flash Phantoms site. You can find more about her work at https://laurashellhorror.wordpress.com.
By
Laura Shell
He slept that limbo sleep, the place between awake and rest, because of the residue on his lips that made him tongue them and rock his head back and forth and moan in confusion. He dreamt of glazed donuts.
The thick, meniscus gook tasted sweet and salty, and when it entered his mouth, it coated his teeth, and as he chewed, it became like paste, and gagged him. He immediately woke, sat straight up in bed, spat out the intrusive clump of whateveritwas.
That's when he noticed the goo was not only on his lips. It covered his arms, his hands, his fingers. He looked down. Even in the darkness of his bedroom, he knew it was on his bare chest, shoulders, and stomach—that dense, gooey slime, at least a half-inch thick.
He got out of bed and turned on the light. Yep, it was all over him, from his toes to his hairline.
He looked at his bed. Strange that the mess had adhered to his body and hadn't touched his sheets, blanket or pillow. It stuck only to him.
"What the fuck?"
But why and how? And where had it come from?
The residue began to move. Around his rib cage, to his back. It stretched across his jawline, forcing a wide, unnatural smile, and fused at the back of his neck, then relaxed. That's when he realized it was a being of its own. Sentient? Again, where had it come from? But was that important right now? How the fuck was he going to get it off him? That seemed more dire.
With the fingers of his right hand, he latched onto a chunk of it on his left forearm and pulled up. And that hurt like hell. The residue was fixed to his flesh.
Panic set in like a thousand butterflies flapping in his chest. His breath quickened. "Jesus Christ."
His wife entered the room and stood before him with her arms crossed. She smiled. "Looks like you have a little problem."
He knew. She had done this, created this, somehow. But why?
As the residue tightened around him, squeezed him, forcing all the breath from his lungs, he opened his mouth wide, gasping for air that wouldn't come.
The residue slinked from his flesh and dashed into his mouth, down his throat, into his stomach, filling him. Turning him.
He stood still for a moment, just stared at her. Strange thoughts came to him, ones he'd never entertained. He knew all at once what she wanted and needed.
He picked up the dirty clothes from the floor and put them in the hamper.
He made the bed.
He took out the trash.
Then he asked his wife, "Is there anything specific you want me to cook for dinner?"
For the first time in a very long while, she hugged him.
Laura Shell has been published in NUNUM, Typishly, Maudlin House, and many others. Her first anthology of paranormal stories, The Canine Collection, was released this year. She's a prolific writer and submitter of flash fiction, and the Editor-in-Chief of the Flash Phantoms site. You can find more about her work at https://laurashellhorror.wordpress.com.
