No Safety in Sleep

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

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

“This is what you don't see.” Janine unpaused the recording and upped the contrast and tint until everything on the screen became spiky darkness.

Before I could say anything to contradict her, she pushed a button and bright colors appeared next to my head. Not next to—attached to. Four fat slugs pulsated in fluorescent yellows and reds. Each one the size of a banana, if bananas could become thickly corpulent, bearing a wide flat disc at one end fastened to my head. Their rhythmic movements made me think of throat muscles expanding and contracting while swallowing.

A wave of revulsion radiated through me. One of my hands crept to the spot where one of those things had touched me, feeling for a trace of anything left behind.

“What are they?” I asked. The words seem to catch in my throat and it took three times to get them out.

“Symbiotes from what I can tell.”

"They're feeding off me? Are they here now?"

Janine waved her hand dismissively. "No. They come and go but mostly show up when you're dreaming."


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Comments (1 so far!)

Jim Stitzel

Jim Stitzel

What do we get out of it is exactly the question to ask. Are they really symbiotes? Or are they actually parasites. Either way, I wouldn't want them attached to me.

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