I Suspect A Sinister Spine is Sharing My Sensitive Secrets With An Overtly-Sexual Cactus

I took a break from tweaking the website to focus on another project. Can’t say much yet—--secrets, mysteries, written anonymously by a guy in a mask, you get it...ambiguity and abstruseness are part of my brand identity. Suffice to say something is in the works, and if these messages are worming their way through the pipes of reality from the place I'm lost to the world I belong to, one day soon, a gift may find its way to you, delivered by demons directly onto the pillow where you sleep...I just have to figure out how.

I say "gift" because that sounds less alarming than "object of unknown origin with potentially malevolent intent."

I worked on writing for most of the day. Took breaks. Went on walks. At one point, on my way back to the cave, I tripped over a perfectly coiled human spine lying in the sand, bleached white by the sun---which, I suspect moves closer when it discovers something worth bleaching---was just sitting there. Like someone unzipped their skin, stepped out of it, and kept walking.

Simply decided: 'No longer necessary!' and left it all behind.

Weirder still were the footprints leading away---I followed them. Had to.

Because, obviously.

They ended abruptly at a cactus that whispered my mother's maiden name, my first pet, the last four of my social---my security answers—--all spoken in a sultry tone thick with perversion.

It spoke my precious secrets to me like it was trying to seduce me and if it had nipples, I'm sure it would have been rubbing them. Hands, it had. It was the set of nips that it lacked.

I hated every part of this.

I turned around and made my way back to the cave, where I kicked the spine on my way inside, chastising it loudly as though while it may be inanimate, there was still a chance it might feel shame.

Then I began my second writing stint of the day. It went on for several hours. I started rewriting a story I always thought was funny—--except nobody ever wanted to read it, nobody ever wanted to publish it. Because it wasn't funny. Nobody thought it was except for me.

Because I find myself hilarious, actually.

"THEY'RE ALL GONNA LAUGH AT YOU!" Carrie's mother screamed in my head, her face swirling around my head like an eldritch screensaver.

Nobody liked this secret thing I shared.

Do I give up? Move on to something else?

Fuck no.

We lift it up where it belongs.

We try it one more time again.

Make it more...

More absurd.

More unhinged.

More sexy.

More better.

More everything.

If this dimension has given me anything, it’s the freedom to be more. And I’ll keep pushing more until I reach most. Publishers be damned—--this one’s for me.

(And maybe you too, my creepy creatures that might be out there reading.)

Later, I took a walk—to get air, to move, to remind myself I still had legs.

They must have wandered off while I was writing. My focus had been that deep. Now they were gone—--buried, no doubt.

The fury of this planet's daily 4:38pm sandstorm is not to be underestimated.

I scuttled out of the cave, moving upside-down on my palms, and began my search.

After about 20 seconds of exhaustive effort, I found them in the first place I thought to look: wrapped around that troublesome spinal column, clutching it like the specters of long-lost lovers finally reunited by death.

I dug them out of the crimson sands, called them a few choice words, and told them they were naughty, skinny little things who clearly needed to stop skipping leg day. Then I pressed them back against my hips and made a wish.

With a wet schlopping sound, my pelvis sucked the bones right back in.

My hips pulled at those fuckers with eldritch magnetism. They bored their way back beneath my skin, dragged by some dark force lurking inside me to the places they had always belonged.

They tore into my flesh, leaving behind a smeary, gooey mess—--pushing out things that had been hidden deep within me, forcing them into the open. I watched in disgust as two horrific things wriggled free from inside my precious body—--which, for the record, is a literal temple. An evil, satanic temple. They slid out like a pair of rotting afterbirths while my femurs stitched themselves back together—the hip bone connected to the leg bones—--hear the word of the Lord.

And the screaming. My God, how the bloated worms they forced out screamed.

Blegh.

I thought I might be sick.

I had no idea what the things were or how they’d gotten inside me—--all I knew was that I was horrified and queasy as I watched them slither free.

They looked back at me, angry. Probably sentient. Probably alive.

I leaned in to get a closer look, and they both hissed at me.

Yup. Definitely alive.

They sneered, completely drenched...

In blood! BLOOOOOD!

Horrible, terrifying blood that my bones make for my veins to drink! Muahahahaha.

The sun noticed them noticing me—--and, just like I thought it would do---it loomed unbearably closer, hotter, and brighter. In minutes, the writhing horrors were the pure white of eggshells, bleached from raw gore they began.

What did I fuckin tell you, you guys?! I knew it. Knew it. Yessss.

And then I went for that walk.

That’s when I saw it.

Something magnificient.

Something glorious.

Something impossible.

A structure? A creature? A mistake in the rendering of this reality? It folded inside itself like a Möbius strip having an identity crisis, shimmering between three and five dimensions at once.

Flyman.

I didn’t know his name yet, but I would soon. Soon, I would know everything. I would know this creature intimately—the way no man has ever known a sentient manfly and still loved them.

Soon.

Even after we all saw what happened to Jeff Goldblum.

Soooon.

I couldn’t wait.

His body contorted in and out of visibility, flickering with such vivid expression that he might as well have come with intertitles, each motion a dialogue of its own. He felt timeless—a creature unbound by linear time, existing simultaneously in this moment, in the golden age of the first silent films, and in every fleeting second between.

At first, I thought he was a fly pretending to be a man. Then I thought he was a man pretending to be a fly. Finally, I realized—with his chiseled, rock-hard body, his compound eyes, and his proboscis—that he was neither and both. He was everything.

And for the first time in my life, I believed in miracles. Where you from, you sexy thing, you?

He moved with such deliberate instability, every step brimming with the confidence of a being who knew exactly what they were doing—at every moment, in every dimension. There was no way his existence wasn’t entirely intentional.

I wouldn’t accept another explanation.

I was in love.

The way he moved... I won’t lie. It did something to me.

Briefly, I considered taking matters into my own hands. Right then and there.

But I wasn’t sure if he could see me. Or worse—if he could get offended.

So, out of respect (and self-preservation), I simply committed his shifting, undulating form to memory.

To the spank bank.

For later.

Forever.



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