As I previously announced, I am publishing a novella, Jellyfish. What’s it about? Well, it’s 20,000 words, so you’ll just have to fork over a few of your hard-earned dollars to read it when it’s released so that you can find out. The current release date is January 1, 2018, and there will be more details to come in the next few weeks.
But in the meantime, here is a small excerpt from the book itself.
I don’t come to this particular bar often, which makes it a perfect place to go tonight. After flashing my ID, I make a beeline for the bar. The bartender notices me immediately. I flutter the eyelashes in a way that acts as a wave. Subtle waves of lust waft off of his skin, into my mind’s mouth. I try not to grin as I order a drink. He leans against the counter to tell me that I look very familiar. I sheepishly arrange the mouth into a smile, and look down. I hear a snort behind me as I feel tendrils of bittersweet envy.
The bartender tells me not to worry about them, they’re just jealous.
You don’t say? I respond, careful to still look uncomfortable.
You just stick with me, he says. I’ll take care of you.
He sort of does. He doesn’t give me a bill at the end of the night, and he does take me back to his surprisingly neat apartment. He sort of tries to get to know me, before actually just asking me to get naked.
This is the part that I hate. It’s this act, this thing, that forces me and this vessel to connect, to cooperate. I taste blood when he bites the lip I took such pains with earlier. Good. It’s easier when they aren’t gentle, when I can make the vessel think that it’s in danger, that it needs me. I let loose a stream of rehearsed sounds that he doesn’t know are rehearsed. I taste blood. Then, I go quiet. Too quiet. Disturbingly quiet, and he hurries to finish.
Is everything ok? The bartender asks. I look at him and grimace. I’m so sorry, I say, reaching for my clothes. I really thought you’d be better.
I see the wrath in the darkness that comes over his eyes, and the rising dark red flush replacing the pink, receding flush of arousal on his chest. I see his unwillingness to speak. I shrug the shoulders and walk out of his bedroom, out of his apartment. In the street, the warm wet air flows into the lungs, keeping me upright until I reach my own home. I have time to shower and eat a few more handfuls of cereal before I fade out.
I have memories. They aren’t mine. They belong to whoever my vessel was before I moved in. I know who she is, I see her every day. Every day that we’re awake, that is. She still matters, of course. She doesn’t come out much, anymore, and I can be like her when I have to be, but she matters.
I need her, and she needs me, and we need to eat. She needs energy that is grown from the ground, energy that is slaughtered and skinned and sold in cold boxes, energy that is left to ferment in barrels before being sold in glass containers. I need energy that is nurtured for nine months, cherished for decades after. Energy that is flawed, and filled with vices. Energy that is vulnerable, and unstable as such that it overwhelms my vessel, and we fade together to digest it.
So we’re not so different, we’re not so similar. I would not exist without her, and she could not have continued to exist without me. I have replaced the haunted pain in her eyes with a haunting allure. Instead of having nightmares, she is one. Instead of being preyed upon, she is now a predator. Invincible, and immortal.
And in return, I am beautiful. My vessel itself is a weapon before I even make a move.
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