Monday, July 13, 2015
100 Words a Day 654
It itched: The stitching that connected the purple arm, bulbous with muscle, to his shoulder, where his own arm had recently been. He couldn’t remember the accident, just waking upon the table and realizing that his arm had been replaced with the limb of some infernal beast. After checking that the old man wasn’t watching, he gave his arm a quick scratch. His nails were cool water down a parched throat; the relief was temporary. The knitting tissues continued to writhe and wiggle under his two-toned skin, a dark, bloody brown where his own flesh met that of the creature’s.