by admin | Jul 23, 2025 | The Biologist’s Bride
They married beneath a veil of spores.
The ceremony unfolded in the dimming light of a marsh-bound village, where every house leaned like it had once tried to drown. Mist laced the air—tasting of salt, peat, and bone. She stood beside him: still, silent, and veiled, the long mesh of her shroud spun from lichen-thread and silk scraped from fungus caps.
He, Dr. Ilyas Thornbridge, held his journal tighter than her hand.
The villagers did not cheer. They watched from behind shutters carved like ribcages, breath held. The officiant, a priest robed in bark and velvet mold, spoke vows older than language. His words cracked like dried petals pressed between ancient pages.
She never spoke.
But when she turned toward Ilyas, he felt her breath—cool, vegetal, laced with something spiced and feral. It slipped beneath his collar. Stirred the hairs at the back of his neck. Slowed his pulse.
Her shadow flickered unnaturally in the last of the light—arms where there should be none. Fins, maybe. Petals. Echoes. Something that had never needed to be human.
He had studied the marsh for years. Catalogued fungal hierarchies, mapped the breath of lichen colonies. But she was beyond the taxonomy.
At the end of the rite, there was no kiss. The priest placed a thin piece of bark between their palms—etched in breath marks. Her fingers, longer than his, cold and pliant, wrapped around his own.
She exhaled.
The bark glowed faintly.
That was enough.
He walked her home through the reed-thick path, by a lantern that pulsed in sync with his heart. She never let go of his hand.
by admin | Jul 23, 2025 | My Monster Roommate Works at the DMV
The man who opens the door isn’t a man.
Not really.
He’s tall, yes. Broad, yes. Shirt tight across his chest like a costume that barely fits. But something about the way he moves—shoulders too still, head tilting before his feet adjust—makes Juno go cold. Or hot. She can’t tell the difference.
“You’re early,” he says.
Flat. Not annoyed. Not curious.
Just… observing.
She adjusts her backpack. “You’re not what I expected.”
“Neither are you.”
His voice is deep enough to echo in her ribs. Not gravel. Not warmth. Just depth. Like sound traveling down a well.
“I’m Juno,” she says, stepping into the entryway like she’s not already regretting everything.
He doesn’t offer his name. Just closes the door behind her with a click that sounds like a lock sliding into place.
It’s not subtle.
The apartment smells like clean dust and pine cleaner. Sparse furniture. No clutter. One blanket folded with geometric precision across the back of the couch.
He watches her take it in.
Not like a roommate. Like a witness.
“Rent’s posted on the fridge,” he says. “Rules are underneath it.”
Juno raises an eyebrow. “You laminated them?”
“Had to. The last one liked to spill.”
Her mouth twitches. “Blood or beer?”
He doesn’t answer.
Her room is small. Clean. Too cold.
The windows don’t open.
She sets her things down and breathes through her pulse. It’s doing that thing again—racing even though she hasn’t moved. Like her body knows something her brain won’t admit yet.
The guy—her roommate—is still out in the living room. She can hear him breathing.
Slow. Measured.
She opens the closet to distract herself.
Finds a DMV uniform hanging inside.
Dark polo. Stiff collar. No name tag.
It smells like him.
And underneath it—folded too neatly to be normal—is a second shirt. Smaller. Soft.
Her size.
That night, she doesn’t sleep.
She hears him pacing at exactly 3:08am. The step-thump pattern of someone used to patrolling. Someone who doesn’t need rest but moves anyway.
Juno turns over in bed, stares at the blank ceiling, and whispers to herself:
“This is fine.”
But the heat between her legs says otherwise.
