A Pound of Soul

Quick note: this is part of a series of microfiction stories, centred around Moira. They are best read in order, or one on its own as a stand alone. They may lose something in the wrong order. Here they are:

1. A Cock About to Cro-

2. Cat and Mouse

3. Just Desserts

++++++++++++

He twitched under me, face glazing over. He wasn't going to last much longer. There was a lot of blood and he was making bubbling noises.

I let him catch a glimpse of "me" as he knew me in the physical world, round face, and looming size. I wanted to taste his horror that it was me. I said again what I'd said in that gloomy alley, this time punctuated by click-click-click. My smile was so much more menacing with these pincers.

"How would you tell it, Mikey? That you kissed a fatty, or got bested by a girl?"

He tried to scramble back, but I had him trapped between my thighs. Leaning forward, my pincers vibrating in a purr, I walked my fingers up his chest. They were already beginning to bristle with tiny hairs.

"You know those dreams where you die, and then you wake up? This is like that. Without the waking up."

I pinned him, my arms now fully-morphed now to resemble a mantis' forelegs, and ate him all up. His soul, his dream, his life.

I had an urge to see his lifeless body, cooling somewhere on the physical plane. Now, while the bond between us was still warm and sticky, was the best time.

He'd been dreaming he was in his own bed, mostly. It had flickered between that, a squeaky single with superhero sheets, and a fancy four poster from some romantic pocket of his soul. Visiting his actual bed took some effort, but the saliva string that connected us was even stronger now, and red to boot. I followed it, like following a sticky train of thought, and there he was. Tangled in his sheets, unbloodied, clad only in snug black boxes, his face a rictus of horror.

I wonder what the cops will make of this one?

Sated, bone-weary, I thought about twitching back the covers of my own bed, and the body that awaited me there-

Oh.

It shouldn't be a surprise when my shell claimed me at last, but it always was. I turned over into true sleep, and slept almost like the dead.

++++++++++++

Word count (excluding notes): 366

Submitted on 19th January at 8.20AM

*Quick Author's Note (reprise)*

Thank you for reading! Please leave a comment so I can reciprocate the read. Your thoughtful engagement is valued. If you enjoyed it, the best compliment you can give 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 20 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" madne 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.