The whistle of a teapot assails me, and I rise from my mat. Bleary eyed, I cast about the room. How many years has it been?
The homunculus on the shelf leers at me, black eyes twitching fervently, eagerly awaiting something, but I can’t think straight enough to know what.
A throaty chuckle floats in through a window, and without thinking I leap to the casement, flinging it open. There stands a twisted mirror of my memories of self.
I thrust my hand out, snatching the homunculus, and stuff him into my mouth, his squeaks reverberating through my skull as I crunch his bones. Power surges through me.
Have you ever written a story where you just let it come out and then at the end said, “What the crap was that?”