Inside Pete's Skin

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

Writer, dreamer, knight, shackled by entertainment . . . and people.

Peter's skin itched as if people were watching him. He knew that he was alone in his apartment but the feeling was so strong that he looked over one shoulder and then the other. His living room lay behind him and while it wasn't well lit any more, ever since a bulb in the tall standing lamp had burned out and he had failed to replace it, it wasn't exactly dark either. The overhead light produced a sickly yellow dimness that wasn't fun or exciting, but was bright enough to see by. Of course no one was there.

He took a haltering half-step toward the kitchen, his intended direction before the feeling first swept over him, when the muscles of his left cheek spasmed in tiny fluttering movements. He touched his rippling flesh with the tips of his fingers, as if to smooth it out by hand, and found that he could feel curved ridges like marbles beneath his skin. At a gentle probe of one of the orbs, the motion there became frantic and wild.

Pete rushed to the bathroom to try and see what was happening to his face.


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