Sated
By Corrie Haldane
I spread the void across my lap, giving the edge a sharp tug to pull it straight. It’s smaller than I thought it would be, this ragged patch of blackest-black. But, like all voids, it’s bottomless. Vast.
I reach inside, feel around the endless nothing until my fingers brush up against eternity. My skin stretches, loosens, and thins, as though the metacarpals were wrapped in wrinkled tissue paper.
The void squeezes, caresses. So playful. Then it lets go, and my hand snaps back to me-shape. I giggle. Who knew that forever would tickle like that?
I make a fist, catching a handful of shadow, and pull back quick, before the void realizes what’s happening. Then I stuff that scrap of darkness into my mouth and gulp it down.
The void in my lap shrieks, the echo of a million borrowed screams. Betrayed, it curls up on itself, tight-tight-tighter until it disappears with a soft pop.
The lifelong hollow of my belly is now bursting with nothingness. I belch.
Sated, at long last.
Corrie Haldane’s work has most recently appeared in The Quiet Ones 2025, Fraidy Cat Quarterly vol. 7, and “Spectacular, Spectacular!: An Anthology of Circensian Horror”. Corrie lives in Ontario, Canada. She finds inspiration in nature, baths, and carefully curated playlists. Find her online: www.corriehaldane.com.