Tickle, Tickle

At first it's just a pencil.

The lead breaks again, and Wade jams it into the electric sharpener. Under the sound of the whirring motor, a scream, discordant, sharp. Wade jumps back; the pencil falls to the ground.

Where the lead used to be, a tail stretches out, coils, and straightens. The thing is twice as long as the pencil shaft now. It swells, and little legs sprout at the sides. Wade scambles to his desktop, knocking notebooks to the floor.

The black serpentine thing works up the side of the desk. Wade pushes his fists against his eyes, rubbing hard until they water.

It's still there, writhing over his shoe. It tickles his ankle, brushing the hairs of his calf as it winds around his leg. He slaps at his pants, dancing frantically on the desk top, but the black thing works into his skin, finds a vein, and takes over.

for Writer Appreciation Week