Melanie Sue has written everything from blog posts and erotica to flash fiction and short story horror. Her passion is the creepy stuff because honestly, she can't look away from a train wreck. Seeing The Exorcist in theaters as an infant may have had a hand in her obsession.
She calls out to the ghosts in her house, reads tarot, and has a big rock collection. When she isn't out camping and looking for cool bugs, she's working on her novella, which could turn into a novel if her protagonist doesn't shut up.
Check out some of her works HERE
DEAD LEAVES
by
Melanie Sue
It hurt. Something changed. I was afraid to lift my head and my eyes were out of focus. This was worse than any migraine I ever had, and those always made me vomit if I tried to move too quickly. Just then, I heard the front door.
“Babe? I’m here! You hungry?” he asked. I heard him gasp as he burst through the bedroom door. “You changed.”
No shit. I reached for him.
“Don’t move. Let me look at you.” I saw movement in shadow form as he walked towards the bed. “You’re beautiful.”
I better be. We agreed on this little experiment on two conditions. I felt his hands on my face, but it hurt so bad I shrunk back on the bed like a cornered, feral cat. I heard myself moan. Something rattled next to me.
“Your teeth! Let me look. Open your mouth.”
I opened my mouth slightly, dizzy from the fast movement. I felt like passing out. I was confused. My eyes were slowly focusing. When I opened my mouth, it felt as though I was opening a beak. It felt longer, like I had pushed my lips and jaw bones out in front of my body to form three fingers. I could feel something where my teeth used to be. Something spikey, like the things on my arms.
“Your mandible is filling in. Your eyes are all there. Can you see? Look at me.”
“Scared,” I whispered.
“I’m here. You’re beautiful. Look at me.” He put his hands on my hips.
I focused more intently on him. I knew my eyes were further apart, and bigger. I could see everything around me. What did he mean by my eyes were all there? I raised my hands to my head.
“Careful. You have to heal. Remember, this is like you molted. You’re soft.”
I slowly reached up with my arms. They had changed some time ago and were now, what my entomologist husband called, raptorial legs. They were longer and though I still had elbows, my forearms had spikes on them. My hands no longer existed. They melded together and lengthened at the wrist, then bent back towards my forearm like a claw.
My head felt teardrop shaped. I could touch my eyes, all five of them, and not blink. It was like wiping a windshield. There were two giant eyes, then three tiny ones, between my antennae. The two long antennae felt like they had ridges circling them like those a gazelle would have.
“I’ll adjust the humidity in here. That will help you with your color and the changes. Then, I’ll give you another shot. Sound good?”
“Mirror,” I whispered and tried to stand to look into the mirror above the headboard.
“Not yet.” He pulled me back to him. He was hiding something.
I held my long, spikey arms out like Jesus on the cross and sat up. My torso was still my own, as were my legs. I felt the blanket wrap around my pelvic bone and upper thigh. I saw a flicker of fear in my husband’s eyes.
“Show me that I’m beautiful.”
He knew I needed him. His hands found his way around the human parts of my body, warming me up yet giving me goosebumps. His mouth found my nipples while his hand worked his shorts to the floor. He fell back onto the bed, pulling me on top of him.
This was my chance to get a peek into the mirror. I rode him slowly, then sat up just a little straighter, arching my back to feel him more deeply. Then I saw.
I wasn’t prepared for the change. My body was still pasty, my nipples pink, but my head and arms, or raptorial legs as he called them, had taken the color of dead leaves. I was a mixture of ash and oak. There was an alien face looking back at me. My antennae swayed in the slight breeze from the ceiling fan. I inhaled with surprise. He looked up at me.
“Not an orchid,” I said.
His eyes widened.
We had agreed that I would be beautiful like a flower. Not look like a Xenomorph.
“You can’t blend into the world if you are pink, baby. The world is black and white. You have more chances of survival in the world if I mixed in the Ghost Mantis, not the Orchid Mantis.”
“You did this?” I wanted to be beautiful, not look like dead leaves.
“Relax, baby. Cum for me.” He held my hips hard as he thrust from below. I held the headboard, still looking at myself in the mirror.
Son of a bitch. He lied to me.
“Wings,” I panted. We agreed I would be beautiful, but we also agreed I would get wings.
“Those come with the final molt. You aren't getting a final molt, remember? That would mean death would come soon after. We have to wait on that one.”
“You’re right,” I said, and with that, he increased the speed of his thrusts. I was close.
“That’s it, baby.”
“Hungry,” I said.
“Now?”
I felt myself smile.
He looked up at me just in time to see my mandible open up around his skull. My jaw was hard enough to crunch down on his head like a chocolate-covered cherry. The brain and blood that oozed out was slow and warm. It was rather tasty. At that moment, I had the best orgasm of my life. I satisfied my hunger in more ways than one. My husband’s pelvis thrust three more times before he ejaculated. His whole body spasmed, and he went limp. I couldn’t help but laugh when I thought about his heads working independently.
I climbed off of his dead body and walked to the dressing mirror in the corner of the room. When I looked at myself, I said, “I’ll get my wings. Don’t you worry.”