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  It has now been six months since Homunculus has dwelt exclusively in Cyndra’s ass. If he still received mail it’d be addressed to him there. ‘Homunculus, Gloryhole.’ Communication as we know it has long ceased. Of course Homunculus knows all, his sole source of nourishment being whatever nutrients he can glean from within Cyndra’s ass. As such, he can detect mood swings with an analyst’s accuracy. His mouth has evolved into a tiny sphincter-like sucker rimmed by thick powerful lips adapted for clinging. This symbiotic relationship helps Cyndra to maintain a healthy colon. Heavy roughage does pose the occasional risk, however. It’s just that, well… his arms and legs are gone. “Not gone really, they’re sort of like… melded to his body?” Cyndra keeps a grungy string tied around Homunculus (which dangles out unobtrusively) for emergencies and the occasional cleaning. On his most recent outing, Cyndra was surprised to notice Homunculus’ nasty little gnarled body had turned a shiny black, in fact you might say sleekly obsidian.

John Owen lives in Brooklyn, NY, with his wife and, uh, homunculus.

Posted at 4am on 11/12/2004 | comments are closed Filed Under: Fiction

"The sleep of reason
brings forth monsters."

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