Son of Blob
Once a mass of carnelian rage from beyond the stars, my old man shrank as decades passed. Cycled from cineplex screens to black-and-white tabletop TVs, he lapsed into obscurity, later to be lost among a million horror clips posted online.
In his prime, he had blotted out the sun like a hot air balloon —but he looked more and more like an abandoned beach ball drifting out to sea. His complexion faded to the soft pink of dying cherry blossoms in April, and when the sun dropped shadows swallowed him as wholly as he once had the mayor of Phoenixville.
Doctors ran test after test, made him flop along on a treadmill, quadrupled his daily dose of fiber, thinned his blood with meds, and forbade him army men buffets. Nothing helped. Every day weaker still, he called me in the middle of the night, afraid there might be truth to rumors about remakes of his story.
Unable finally to recognize in the mirror the same spongy form he had bequeathed to me, he prayed to recover chiseled features he never owned. He swore by alien gods that they belonged to his line alone.
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