a short story of numinous transhuman body horror

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a short story of numinous transhuman body horror

The Voice is not for you. It sings with words meant for other ears.

They roar through you, these glacial tides, to crash on other, further shores. Every augury a sluice of change, of brilliant, blazing roil in a world gone mad. One where mountains sing, rivers climb clouds out of atmosphere, and freed firma drifts through firmament. An endless, glorious upheaval. Your body caught in ceaseless skytide, further changed with every note.

The others left drift into and out of your orbit. Each begging tasks for the Great Work, while you rise a second sun, the one above gone black in a cerulean sky filled with impossible, planet-eating shadows.

And with every whisper rung from a co-opted, ravaged throat, you beg without words: when will mercy be given? When will you crumble, at last, to dust?

But the Voice never answers you, only others, as it sings eternal.

Michael Matheson is a genderfluid graduate of Clarion West ('14), with work published or forthcoming in Nightmare, Shimmer, and Augur, among other venues. They also co-founded and co-edit Anathema: Spec from the Margins, a tri-annual speculative fiction magazine of work by Queer/Two-Spirit POC/Indigenous/Aboriginal creators. Find them at https://michaelmatheson.wordpress.com.


Short story written by Michael Matheson

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Story prompt taken from a photo by Kenrick Mills

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