Just Desserts

Quick note - if you'd like to the previous ones, they're here (1) and here (2). All three very short! This should work as a standalone - let me know whether you think it does.

Edit to add - I'm not loving the title. Should have gone with A POUND OF SOUL, but I c.b.a to submit a ticket about it.

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Chocolate cake keeps well, and it's calorie dense. I sloughed my too-tight coat, and squashed both thick slices in the cupboard. For after. The door practically bulged.

I settled into my sofa and whiled away the hours bathed in the glow from the TV and my phone. Sometimes, I blinked. I napped, unmoving.

I took a long bath. Close to 1.45am, I called a local takeaway to ask about delivery. On discovering they were shortly to close, I apologised for bothering them and hung up. Alibi done.

There's something satisfying about twitching down the covers on a neatly-made bed before climbing in. I settled my bulk against the pillows, my hands folded on my chest like a portly nosferatu. Running my tongue over my teeth, I tasted him, remembering his heat and his fear and holding it in my mind.

My breath steadied before my eyes finished shutting. I've long had the knack of it; holding myself in that odd state between sleeping and waking. And another thing I've learned: to feel deeply anchored to every cell of this heavy shell and then jerk out and up as if catching myself unawares.

I feel light.

In this state, in this place, I can go anywhere. And one more trick: I can find dreams.

They're a chaotic jumble, but I have a bond with him now, as if a bit of saliva stretched from his lip to mine. I follow it and slide into the dream, taking control before he knows what's happening.

He dreams that he wakes, and a woman is straddling him. I start with what I looked like before my weight gain, a shape I hold here naturally. I let his mind add embellishments without him realising.

I laugh at the predictability of it: tauter stomach, bigger breasts, hair undulating over my shoulders, darkly painted lips.

I pull the dream away from him again, growing grotesque pincers and clicking them in his face to see the horror dance on it.

He's trying to wake, but I have them both - his soul and his dream - tight in my grip. He is stuck here. Only I can hear his screaming, and it's delicious.

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Word count: 366

Submitted on: 18 January at 1.20am

* Quick Author's Note (reprise) *

As always - thank you so much for reading! Your engagement is very much valued. Please leave a comment so I can reciprocate. If you enjoyed it, the best compliment you can give me is to share it, or read another.

The story behind the story: I am probably bending the definition of micro fiction to breaking point here, but Moira is so much fun to write.

I'm writing a story every day this year. This one makes an 18 day streak. You can find all of them in my Index post, which I'll link to below. It's also pinned to the top of my profile.

If you're joining me on this "story every day" adventure, please leave a link in the comments. Whether you're on a creative bent, like me, and writing mostly microfiction/stories, or whether you have your own, self-imposed criteria, I'd love to see what you come up with for today. I'll try to come back and edit this to link to your piece at the bottom.

ETA Rachel's piece for today, please consider giving it a read!