by Mary Kuna

My last line deleted itself, and words I hadn’t typed appeared on the screen:

IT’S TOO LATE TO STOP WHAT’S COMING.

“This is the strangest virus I’ve ever seen,” I muttered.

NOT AS STRANGE AS THE ONE YOU’RE GOING TO GET.

How could they hear me? Was someone controlling my computer and webcam remotely?

My arm itched and burned. I scratched it, and my skin rippled. Something was burrowed underneath it. The undulations grew larger, more frantic. A stripe down my forearm split, then burst open.

Once I saw what slithered out, my computer was the least of my problems.

Mary Kuna

Mary Kuna is a writer and librarian in Saint John, New Brunswick, Canada. Their work has been published in The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, Scribes*MICRO*Fiction, and Queer Sci Fi’s flash fiction anthologies Clarity and Innovation. They live with their librarian spouse and a rambunctious cat named Pippa.

Website: marykuna.com