Flesh: A Short Story (Part 2 of the Meat Trilogy) by Nick Burgin
More blood.
More gore.
More sex.
More... fucking weird.
Molly and Steve live a perfect suburban life in their beige stucco house in the Kissimmee heat - remote jobs, quiet evenings, good sex that somehow never quite feels like enough. One restless night the longing for more takes root between them.
It leads them deep into the wetlands, to a hidden pool of luminous, fleshy growth that should not exist - something between fungus, coral, and raw meat. What happens there is wet, ecstatic, and irreversible. Their bodies soften like warm clay. Flesh opens, fuses, tears, and reforms. Vines push into every orifice and through soft tissue. They fuck, feed, and come apart inside the glowing mass until they no longer know where one body ends and the other begins.
The entity does not stay behind. It follows them home.
Soon the ordinary world feels thin and unbearable. They begin seeking others who might understand, or at least feed, what they have become. Each encounter leaves them stronger, stranger, and somehow more alone, the green glow pulsing ever closer to their quiet street as soft, living tendrils wait just beyond the retention pond at the back of the garden.
When one last possible connection fails, only one path remains.
To return. Perhaps forever.
It leads them deep into the wetlands, to a hidden pool of luminous, fleshy growth that should not exist - something between fungus, coral, and raw meat. What happens there is wet, ecstatic, and irreversible. Their bodies soften like warm clay. Flesh opens, fuses, tears, and reforms. Vines push into every orifice and through soft tissue. They fuck, feed, and come apart inside the glowing mass until they no longer know where one body ends and the other begins.
The entity does not stay behind. It follows them home.
Soon the ordinary world feels thin and unbearable. They begin seeking others who might understand, or at least feed, what they have become. Each encounter leaves them stronger, stranger, and somehow more alone, the green glow pulsing ever closer to their quiet street as soft, living tendrils wait just beyond the retention pond at the back of the garden.
When one last possible connection fails, only one path remains.
To return. Perhaps forever.
