“You’re just a baby,” he said in his twenty-four-year-old glory. “What could you know of making promises, at twenty?”
The monster oozes from the closet, slinks past Tim’s bed to Jon’s. It pulses wetly. Jon sobs, “No, Timmy!” It writhes, slurps. Tim smiles.
“You can talk?!” she gasped, setting her diary down gently. “Of course,” it replied. “I’m just shy.”
The photo on the website didn’t show the many steps leading down to the cabin. With trepidation I began my descent, aging yet adventurous.
Amy felt them wiggle; ripping at her insides. Doctors examined, but found nothing. With her knife, she began digging them out herself.
Enjoy the ears. Nibble on the nose. Snack on the stomach. Feast on the feet. How to consume a chocolate creature.
It’s secret research but they never let on – not until weird plants began sprouting in all our gardens. Now they want to talk.
The ozone layer gravely depleted, they hide behind blackout curtains. Pale victims of a blitz they engineered themselves, they weep too late.
Many palm trees with vines. Monkeys swinging from trees. Butterflies and flowers. Nice and peaceful. A man-made boat with men. Peace ruined.
He sees the recycling. A huge pile. Yawning, he piles it into a black bag. The binmen come. He smiles as they chuck the bags into the truck.