Symbiote Mask Stories

This i sn’t what he want ed . That’s what he tells himself. Really, though, deep down, in the darkest pit of his now racing heart, the thing standing in his bedroom right in front of him is, in fact, exactly what he want s . It all c omes back to him. The night before. The meteor. He’d approached it carefully since the heat seemed intense, when all of a sudden it cracked wide open all on it’s own. Peering inside he saw it cradled in a membrane of dripping mucus like an oyster’s pearl. Against all sense of self-preservation he’d reached inside with gloved hands and drew out what could only be described as a huge egg, nearly the size of a football. It shimmered as he turned it about in the light of his headlamp, but despite it’s glisten it didn’t seem wet at all. Smooth to the touch in fact save for the latticework of bulbous veins winding their way across the surface. From there his memories are patchy. Vaguely he recalls hiking back through the woods and making it back to his ...

Two Weeks. It’d been two weeks since Trisha’s mom died. There was nothing out of the ordinary about it, cancer, 55, came out of nowhere – or at least it seemed to. If her mom had known about it earlier she certainly hadn’t told Trisha, which to her seemed all too on brand. To say that she and her mother didn’t see eye to eye would be a gross understatement. There was no juicy drama, no audacious scandal between them, just your usual heaping helping of parental alienation, sprinkled with a heaping side of residual ill will from a childhood without a dad and a mother who apparently felt mere financial support was all her child needed from her. Not exactly gossip fuel, but enough to keep her therapist busy. She couldn’t even remember the last time they talked, much less had a conversation. Probably their yearly Christmas call. Even then calling it a conversation would have been a stretch, mostly it was just pre-packaged holiday pleasantries. Until... ...