By Susan Franceschina
I thrive as a spy above the plastic dogs circling below. I’m brilliant and alone on this balcony. The sidewalk traffic fluctuates depending on the time, but I see everything, even the multitude of frothing mouths.
They’d love a piece of my flesh.
I watch while sipping strong black coffee. It chases away last night’s sleeplessness. It makes me feel warmer, slightly opposite of dead. And this seclusion feeds my soul. I’m the Queen of the World for seeing through the cocky swaggers below. I’m a fucking genius.
I can’t remain still, so I slip into the bathroom, crumbling. My reflection confirms my worst fears.
I wipe frantically at the white foam, but it pours from the corners of my mouth like a swollen river bursting through a dam. It’s unstoppable, and I hate myself for wanting what the circling dogs want.
I run outside, suddenly shameless. I tear a piece of flesh off a passing woman. God, it’s just the thing. And she doesn’t mind. In fact, she respectfully gorges herself on me. It’s better than sex.
I slip between the cool sheets of my bed. Like a past-due reward, sleep comes quickly.
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Biography: Susan loves to write. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Daily Science Fiction, Wanderings, WEIRDYEAR, Fringe, Yellow Mama, Yesteryear Fiction, and others. Unfrozen, her latest sci-fi short about a sexually frustrated girl trapped in a dystopian world, can be found here: http://www.amazon.com/Unfrozen-ebook/dp/B005OCQRDI/ref=pd_rhf_p_t_1
- ► 2013 (14)
- ► 2012 (52)
- ▼ 2011 (25)