#moodmother

[moodmother]

Endless Pancakes - I

Along with the bacon and coffee comes a plate of four pancakes. Jen tucks in happily, and is perfectly satisfied. The bacon is both chewy and crisp, the coffee is fresh, and the pancakes do--just as she had anticipated--hit the spot.

Checking her watch, she sees that it is later than she thought. She has a meeting with a major prospect in just an hour.

"Can I just get the check?" Jen asks. "I gotta run."

"Well, it'd be four-fifty for the bacon and coffee." The waitress plunks another plate of pancakes in front of Jen. "But no, you don't."

"What're you--I don't--" Jen sputters, but she realizes that she has grasped her fork again. She is quite full. But nonetheless she watches herself, baffled, as she digs into the second plate of pancakes. She spreads on a generous smear of butter; pours over the cloying, satisfyingly artificial syrup; and resolutely devours the stack.

Now she is very full. And she is going to be late.

"Okay, I really--"

Another plate of pancakes appears.

"No...." Jen groans. To no one, to herself. Despite her confusion--and growing fear--she moves as if under a spell. Bite by bite, at a steady robotic pace, she eats the third stack of pancakes.

As she swallows the last forkful, her phone vibrates. The prospect, wondering where she is.

After gulping a mouthful from the water glass that has been kept full beside her, Jen answers desperately. Her first impulse is to say Help me. Instead, she stammers something about breakfast and a diner.

"Oh, that little place on Route One?" The prospect's voice brightens. "What a great idea. I'll come meet you there." Before Jen can say anything else, he hangs up.

Jen feels full to the gills now, painfully stuffed. She manages to tear herself out of the booth, but instead of running to the door she finds herself stumbling to the bathroom.

Gasping on the toilet, Jen wants to cry but pulls herself together. She tries to take stock of the situation. She is crammed full of food--mostly pancakes--and her belly is bloated and groaning. She manages to piss, but she doesn't feel the need to shit, and she isn't nauseous. In fact, somehow, she feels as though she couldn't vomit if she tried.

Her shirt and blazer have already gotten tight, but she has the creeping sensation that--right now at this very moment--they are getting tighter. Her stomach gurgles, and she feels just a little bit less full, less painful.

Oh no....

Leaning over the sink, she splashes cold water on her face. Looking at herself in the mirror, she thinks--is she imagining it?--that she looks slightly...fatter. Fuller in the face.

Jen's eyes prickle. Her chest tightens. I have to get out of here! She resolves to make a run for it.

...but as she staggers out of the bathroom, instead of making a beeline for the exit--and it's right there!--she finds herself sliding back into her booth. And there on the table is a fresh stack of pancakes.

+++

The prospect arrives as Jen is mid-stack, her eyes streaming tears as she mechanically crams each gooey bite into her mouth.

"Mmmf," Jen moans miserably. She is painfully full again, her belly stuffed round and firm. She can feel and even hear the seams of her blazer and pants straining.

"Oh, uh, Jennifer, I--"

The waitress is suddenly hovering over them. "She ordered the Endless Pancakes," she explains.

"Oooooh." The prospect nods as if he completely understands this. "I see. Certainly an...interesting choice! I think I'll just have an omelette, myself." He leans down toward Jen and says, more quietly, "I understand you have...another commitment now, but it was nice to meet you. I'm happy to call your office and let them know."

No, Jen wants to plead, help me. But it just comes out as "Npfh." And he is already making his way over to the counter to enjoy his own brunch.

+++

[ucchelphotography]

Happy mothers day El amor mar puro con componen dos palabras "mamá" no existe un vínculo mas grande que ese. #moodmother #mothersday #ternoyucateco #familypictures❤️ #supermotherload #familyyoung #youngfamilyphotos #elegantclothes https://www.instagram.com/p/COt6HjhhYiG/?igshid=1rvvnmd71g7on

[agayconcept]

.

[sundrenched-smilez]

moodmoth replied to your post: s/o to the time someone told me i look like...

u def do omg ��

hehe thank u!!!! : DD i do + it makes me feel rly great, i dont see enough girls/fem ppl w longer faces, so its nice 2 see someone so pretty + look like em

[throwbackannie]

Zombabe 🖤🖤 the beautiful Moodmoth 🌚🌚 Love the dark side! Piercings @throwbackannie SHOP 🕷🕷www.throwbackannie.com

[revengeisalwaysanoption]

Simon from Shadowhunters for the character meme!

Why I like them: I like how Simon can make the moment a little less angsty, when it’s a matter of life and death or near apocalypse…

Why I don’t: It’s always too angsty and mopey when it’s about himself though. And I couldn’t stand seeing him pining after Clary. It’s not that I don’t like him, but often I would with that his scenes were given to someone else *Magnus X°D*

Favorite episode (scene if movie): 2x19 and 2x20, I really liked how he behaved with the Seelie Queen

Favorite season/movie: Second half of S2.

Favorite line: “Guys, that was incredible. It was like watching the live version of The Graduate.”Favorite outfit: Raphael’s suit at the wedding :P

OTP: Saphael but I really like him with Maia too. 

Brotp: Sizzy, but I’d love to see him bond more with Magnus much too Alec dismay X°°°°°°°°°°D

Head Canon: I have none…

Unpopular opinion: Well, not liking him that much seems quite an unpopular opinion here on Tumblr, anyway.

A wish: Be more badass. Don’t turn into… You know what. (I know what happens in the books)

An oh-god-please-dont-ever-happen: Jimon. Or, something more likely that I don’t want to see happening, apart from that spoilery thing mentioned above… Don’t have Camille using her sire bond to make him hurt the ones he loves or betray them, I guess.

5 words to best describe them: dorky, cute, drama king, woe is me, such badass, very vampire

My nickname for them: I have none.

Fonte:

moodmoth

[moodmother]

Endless Pancakes - II

Tight! So...tight...! is all that Jen can think.

She does not know how much longer it has been, or how many plates of pancakes she has now consumed. Both without and within, she is agonizingly squeezed. Her stomach is crammed full to bursting. It pulses painfully in protest against the unreasonable volume of food that Jen has unwillingly shoveled down her gullet.

Her clothes have also grown unbearably tight--specifically around her middle, where the waist of her pants digs savagely into her bloated belly.

"Please!" Jen gasps when the waitress appears again to clear her empty plate. "Too...full. It...hurts...."

"Sounds like you need a minute, hon," the waitress responds brightly. "We'll give you some time. It gets easier--or at least that's what I've heard."

For who knows how long, Jen sits there. Alone, too full to move, breathing heavily and groaning softly. She fumbles at her pants and manages to undo the button and fly. She moans in relief as the soft flab of her lower belly oozes out, freed. Then tears prickle her eyes. Since she sat down this morning--was it this morning?--and began her accursed task of endlessly--endlessly?--guzzling pancakes, she has definitely gotten fatter.

Endless? Impotent panic fills Jen's mind.

Around her hips, thighs, and underarms, the seams of her clothes have begun to strain. Her great round belly has pulled the front of her shirt and blazer completely taut.

How...how big will I get?

Inside her, her stomach and guts begin to gurgle ominously. The horrible mass of food begins to churn and then...shifts. Gradually, bit by little bit, her stomach seems to...empty. But the food she has eaten isn't...moving down, to make its way out again....

At the same time that Jen's gut is making room, the seams of her clothes grow even tighter. She can hear them creaking, and they begin to pinch her.

As if summoned by the gentle sounds of Jen absorbing the pancakes and growing fatter, the waitress reappears and plunks down another wretched stack. "Sounds like you're ready for more!"

Miserably, tears streaming down her face, Jen mechanically begins to eat again.

Several plates later--how many?--she is painfully full once again. Again she sits, alone with her fear, waiting to grow and then eat again. With a soft plip! the front button of her blazer pops off. Her belly bulges out, straining at the gaps between the buttons of her shirt as if trying to escape.

How big am I going to get?! +++

[moodmother]

Expansion Phase

The devil appears as Jerm turns to leave the wine cellar. He gasps and nearly drops the bottle of Dom, but his look of surprise quickly gives way to a grin.

"I'm ready," he says, gesturing to his clothes: an oversized hoodie and matching, generously-cut joggers, all in charcoal with tasteful neon yellow piping.

The devil only looks confused. "Does it matter what you're wearing?"

"Wouldn't it?" Now Jerm is confused. Why shouldn't it matter?

"Well the house isn't going to fit anymore, nevermind your clothes."

Jerm blinks, uncomprehending. "What?"

"I suppose I thought that I'd find you outside somewhere, but this will certainly be a bit more fun."

The fabric of his clothes is already starting to pull tighter across his skin, but Jerm has not yet noticed that he has begun to grow. He is still trying to grasp what the devil could mean. "The house…?" A knot of dread settles into the pit of his stomach.

"Well, you remember the deal."

"I…" Jerm looks down at his belly, slowly swelling out like an inflating balloon, and registers his predicament. The bottle of champagne smashes to the floor.

"No," is all he can say as he staggers out, through the bright light and crisp whiteness of the kitchen. "No, no, no--"

Out in the foyer, between the two symmetrical staircases that lead up to the second floor, hangs a portrait of Jerm looking just as he did moments ago: slim in a very specific, fastidious way. Not scrawny or wiry. Just full and toned enough to suggest a breezy fitness routine, yet without any muscular bulk that might belie vulgar, meat-headed vanity.

Now, tottering beneath that portrait, Jerm is already unrecognizable. He is expanding all over, swelling outward in all directions, his flesh sitting taut instead of sagging down. The waistband of the joggers is digging into his midsection. But he continues to steadily grow.

"Why?" he gasps.

"Our deal! Today's the day!"

The seams of his clothes are pulling tight.

"I thought…" he gasps, "Only…a couple hundred…pounds…."

The stitches running down his pant legs begin to pull apart.

"A couple hundred?" The devil gapes, incredulous. "Didn't you do the math?"

With a POP the waistband of Jerm's pants snaps. He groans against the oppressive tightness of the hoodie wrapped around his chest and arms. "Just a…tiny…fraction…."

The devil conjures up a brimstone-pocked scroll and consults it. "Right here," it goes on, tapping the scroll, "one thousandth of a pound per dollar. You didn't specify 'profit,' so we settled upon total sale price. That was the deal, Jeremy. You must have known what that meant."

Jerm only moans. The hoodie finally shreds, defeated at last by his relentless growth. He has started to take on a domed shape. His feet are buried beneath the bulk that used to be his legs. His barrel-like arms lie straight out, resting atop his impossibly huge sides. His entire midsection is all of a piece, still firm and rounded like the hull of a boat.

"Make it…stop…."

"Jeremy," the devil leans in close to Jerm's great broad face, "a deal's a deal. You just sold the company for three billion dollars. You know what that means."

"Nooo," Jerm sobs. Tears collect atop his cantaloupe sized cheeks.

"Three million pounds. That's what you agreed to."

Jerm wails. His growth continues unabated. The floorboards underneath him groan as if in sympathy.

The devil pokes pensively at his chest. "This will be very interesting to see."

"You…really are…the Devil…."

"No. I am only a devil."

+++

Breaking news:

"Emergency personnel are on the scene at the home of Jeremy 'Jerm' Scallon, creator and former owner of Skdli.do. Scallon recently made headlines thanks to the high-profile sale of Skdli.do to Meta, a move that turned him into an overnight billionaire. It seems that a neighbor called 911 following some sort of disturbance at the property. It is not clear at this time whether Mr. Scallon or anyone else is at home."

+++

Jerm can hear vehicles pulling up outside but he has gotten stuck here in the foyer with his back to the front door and windows. All that he can see is his portrait up on the wall, taunting him above the burgeoning horizon of his belly. Himself as he was. When he stepped on the bathroom scale this morning, it read 175 pounds. Now….

With a soft pap the underside of his belly reaches the floor and the whole thing continues to swell. Behind him, his titanic ass cheeks are already spreading across the floorboards.

"No…more…."

"Much more," comes the devil's voice in his ear. "You've gained, what, a thousand pounds, give or take? You're going to pack on three thousand times that much before it stops. That was the deal! I did warn you." With that it disappears in a puff of sulfurous smoke.

Someone is knocking at the front door. Of course Jerm cannot turn to look. His head is completely smothered, his face pinned between cheeks the size of sofa cushions. His hands have disappeared into the burgeoning barrel-like appendages that used to be his forearms, and those will soon be swallowed up by his now mattress-sized upper arms. Overall, he has taken on the rough shape of an enormous dome. And every part of him continues to grow steadily. Bigger, and bigger, and bigger. Heavier and heavier.

"Mr. Scallon? A neighbor ca--"

The cops entering through the front door cannot parse what they have walked into. An advancing wall of flesh, nearly as tall as a man, cleft vertically. Two impossibly huge ass cheeks, surging inexorably toward them and toward the door.

"Gnnhh…." Jerm moans. His belly is now touching the wall beneath the portrait, and pressing ever harder against it as he grows.

"M-Mr. Scallon…?"

"Helllp…me…."

+++

"Some kind of scene continues to unfold at the home of Skdli.do founder Jeremy Scallon. Law enforcement have not released any details except to report that Mr. Scallon is alive. Multiple ambulances are on the scene now but no one appears to have been taken out of the home."

+++

Jerm has grown flush with the walls but his expansion continues unabated. All that he can see is his own belly forced upward against the wall in front of him. Before his eyes it swallows up the portrait of his former self. Except for an upturned face floating in a sea of flesh, all vestiges of his humanity are gone. And still he continues to grow, filling up endlessly like a monstrous water balloon.

The walls are so, so tight, and getting tighter. He moans in discomfort, and even begins to weep. Alarmed voices chirp around him; he can feel tentative hands against the skin of his impossibly huge buttocks. But no one can help him.

+++

"At this time we have secured the scene, and have taken every precaution," says an FBI spokesman during the press conference. "We cannot rule out the possibility of some kind of pathogen."

+++

Jerm has completely filled up the foyer. With no more room to grow, his obscene bulk has been swelling upward, such that the buried core of his skeleton and musculature is buoyed within it like a morsel of fruit suspended within a gigantic jelly. His flesh begins to squeeze out into other areas of the house: into the kitchen on one side, into the library on the other. Up the staircases, which groan in protest. Pressing against the front door and windows….

+++

In the news footage of the Scallon mansion, there is a sudden flurry of panic among the assembled firefighters and paramedics. The first storey windows break and…something oozes out of them. The front door bulges outward ominously. It buckles, the hinges break, and the same fleshy substance fills the frame.

+++

Jerm is utterly alone. His flesh blots out the light from the windows, and muffles the sound of sirens and screams. His immense weight has splintered the floorboards and collapsed the staircases. Still he grows and grows. He is starting to forget who he is. All he knows is that he is horribly confined, squeezed. Outgrowing the house, just as the devil had said.

+++

"Authorities believe that the object is human, or human in origin, and that it is still alive. It is not clear what has caused the extreme growth, or whether the effect may be contagious. Residents of the surrounding neighborhood have been evacuated for their safety."

In the live footage, personnel in hazmat suits mill around the perimeter of the mansion. The fleshy mass continues to swell and ooze out of the windows and doors. The figures start and flee as, all at once, the house seems to come apart at the seams. The walls burst, forced outward by a relentless tide of flesh.

+++

Unheard by anyone else, the thing that once was Jerm moans in relief as he finally bursts free of the house. Everything is too small. He needs room. Unfettered by walls, he can continue to expand unabated. He has forgotten everything: his money, his name, how his face used to look. Everything except the sensation of growth. The feeling of his own unfathomable weight.

+++

Using a crane, they are able to remove the roof--the only thing that remains of the house--from atop the mountain of flesh. With a drone-mounted camera, they confirm that there is the vestige of a human face sunken into the top of the thing.

"Authorities believe, but are unable to confirm, that what we are looking at is Jeremy Scallon himself."

The thing resembles a massive organic dome, cleft fore and aft where it apparently has monstrous ass cheeks and the hemispheres of an obscenely vast belly. It is still growing, spreading upward and outward in all directions, threatening the neighboring mansions.

"While he appears to be alive, it remains unclear when or if Mr. Scallon will stop growing. No plans have yet been announced as to how the situation will be addressed if this…mass cannot be contained."

Jerm made his infernal pact in secret: in exchange for the successful sale of his company, he would gain one thousandth of a pound per dollar of the final price. When Jerm weighed himself this morning, the scale read 175 pounds. And so the thing will only stop growing when it finally weighs just about 3,000,175 pounds.

Of course no one has any idea, they cannot possibly know, exactly how big the thing will get. It cannot speak, and will never speak again. Viewers and bystanders, Jerm's buyers and colleagues and family, can only watch helplessly as it swells bigger, and bigger, and bigger.... +++

Down in the offices of Hell, the devil sighs as it adds the last bit of data to its quarterly report. "You'd think a computer guy would have been better at math."

[moodmother]

Endless Pancakes IV

"Babe! What's going on, I--"

Jeff freezes at the tableside, his mouth open, eyes wide.

His formerly svelte fiancée is recognizable by her blonde hair and by the clothes that she is growing out of. Before his eyes, the last buttons on her shirt--the ones fastened highest up on her chest--give way beneath the weight of her breasts. The straps of her brassiere creak softly, ominously.

"Please," she sputters. Tears of desperation and relief roll down her bloated cheeks. She reaches up to him with both arms. Her plump fingers are frightfully sticky.

"What on--"

"Help me," she sobs. "Get me out of here. I need to--"

"What the hell is going on?"

A waitress appears at Jeff's elbow and sets a plate in front of Jen. Jen falls to dutifully devouring the pancakes, sobbing between mouthfuls.

"She ordered the Endless Pancakes," the waitress explains matter-of-factly, before disappearing back into the general bustle of the diner.

Jen's shirt and blazer have grown so tight across her shoulders and upper arms that her motion is inhibited. But, driven inexorably to eat, she pulls against the seams and they tear, shredding into great holes. Before Jeff's eyes, she bursts ever more out of her clothes.

"Pllth," she begs him through a mouthful of the wretched sweet sludge.

Horror replaces hope as Jen watches Jeff's expression change. Realization wipes the confusion and disgust from his face.

"Ohhhhh," he murmurs.

"B-babe?"

Jeff plucks up one of the clean napkins from the tabletop and uses it to gingerly take Jen by the hand. Her left hand. Gently, he works at her engagement ring, finally pulling it free from her swollen, sticky finger.

"Wh-?"

"Before it gets stuck!" Jeff gestures with the ring, and then tucks it into his shirt pocket. He sighs. "It's really a shame, babe. It's been great. I wish you all the best with this...new thing." He smiles indulgently at her, sighs again, and turns to leave.

"What?!"

"This." He gestures toward her and the table. "You ordered the Endless Pancakes. Godspeed. Maybe...maybe I'll come by to visit sometime. Don't worry, I'll let your parents know." "My par--?"

But Jeff is already heading out the door.

A fresh plate is set in front of Jen. This time, she eats the pancakes in silence, too bewildered even to cry.

+++

[moodmother]

Endless Pancakes - III

What will it feel like, Jen wonders miserably, when I'm the size of a whale? But that isn't really possible. Right?

Is it?

"Please," she whimpers as the waitress drops off the latest plate of pancakes. "No more."

"Sorry, hon. You ordered the Endless Pancakes."

Jen grips the woman's arm. "Please! I'm...it's making me...I'm getting fat!"

"Well, of course." The waitress deftly pries away Jen's fingers.

"But how big!" Jen wails, beginning to weep again. "How big will I get!"

A few of the other patrons turn to stare in Jen's direction.

"Ma'am," the waitress scolds her sharply. "Please keep your voice down. You'll disturb the other customers."

+++

A tick...a tick....

Tears stream down Jen's face as she sits, packed tight as a drum again, waiting to grow. A bloated tick. That is all that she can think of. That is what she feels like now.

She has swelled and swelled. She is fat and round all over now. She whimpers, and the seams of her pants, where they run along her thighs, split open. The seams of her blazer, under her armpits, begin to tear as well.

She quivers with impotent panic.

How big am I going to get?!

"Please," Jen groans as the waitress reappears with another plate of pancakes. "Please...tell me...how...big...?"

"What's that, hon?"

"How big," Jen puffs, trying and failing to resist digging her fork into the stack. "Am I going...to get?"

"How would I know, ma'am," the waitress replies tersely. "You did order the Endless Pancakes. I guess we'll just have to find out."

+++

As Jen continues to despondently gorge herself--How long? How long has it been?--her phone vibrates.

She fumbles desperately, snatching it up with plump sticky fingers. The screen reads: "Jeff." Her fiancé.

"Hlnph!" Jen manages to answer. "Babe? Are you okay? I called the office, and they told me that you don't work there anymore. Something about...'bottomless mimosas?'"

"Pancakes!" Jen sobs.

"Huh?"

Jen does her best to explain between mouthfuls. "Help," she moans. "Please help me!"

"I'll be there as soon as I can," Jeff promises. And then he hangs up.

Jen slumps back against her seat. Her belly is painfully full yet again, but she knows that she has been gorging for longer and longer in between each rest.

The thought that her stomach is stretching or adapting--that her capacity is growing and that she might get larger faster--fills Jen with terrible dread. She begins to weep again. But there is a twinge of hope: Jeff is on his way. She will be rescued from this absurdity before she outgrows the booth. Before she grows so impossibly huge that she fills up the entire diner. Pip! pip! pip! The buttons of Jen's shirt pop off one by one. Her new round gut, freed at last, billows out onto her lap. It bulges out far enough rest lightly against the edge of the table. +++

[moodmother]

They's a Crowd

In between sips of macchiato, Zenith types away furiously. Oh this, this is a good one. The latest post for their blog, They's a Crowd. An invective against the oppressive tyranny of romantic love and family bonds.

"Do you really believe that?"

Zenith never saw the stranger sit down, but there he is on the other side of the table. Meticulous strawberry beard, sharp twinkling eyes. A sudden faint whiff of heather and iron in the air.

"What?"

"All that. That your friends should prioritize you over their lovers and children."

There is no way for the stranger to have seen what Zenith is writing but they are caught up in the righteous heat of their conviction. "It's about economies of care! How am I supposed to survive." In their fervor, Zenith almost spills coffee onto the keys of their MacBook.

"Indeed."

"Last week, I was feeling depressed so I texted my supposed 'best friend' to see if we could hang out. But he had promised his wife that he would take her out to the movies. Well, fair enough. So I asked if I could come along--and he said 'No!' Well, what about my social needs? Just because she's his 'wife,' just because he's bound by the patriarchal institution of marriage, he can treat me like I mean nothing? And just last night, I didn't have the spoons to make myself dinner. I put out a message in the group chat, but of course you know what day it was."

"Mother's Day."

"Right! So nobody would come by and cook me a simple meal, because they were all having dinner with their mothers instead. I had to go hungry, because our heteropatriarchal culture arbitrarily values parent-child relationships over non-biological kinship."

"I see. And you couldn't have just gotten UberEats or something?"

Zenith scoffs. "I'm supposed to pay more to live because I'm single and don't have anyone to care for me? And you know those delivery apps are so exploitive. It's better to order from the restaurant directly. But then I would have to call for delivery, and I have social anxiety."

"Oh, well, of course. So what you're saying is, it's important to the cause of queer liberation that the lives of everyone in your social circle revolve around you."

Zenith's brow furrows. "Well, I--"

"Would you say that you desire that? For your friends to prioritize you above all else? To care for you, feed you, cater to your every need? Do you…wish it?"

"Well, yes! My life is just as--"

But with a Cheshire cat smile and a twinkle of his pale gray eyes, the stranger has vanished.

+++

That evening, Zenith receives a text from their best friend: come over for dinner tonight?

When Zenith obliges, both their friend and his wife are all smiles. "Oh, don't get up Zenith. Let me get that for you. Have some more. You know we really love you, Z. We haven't shown it enough. You mean the world to us, we really need to prioritize you more. Have some more. Let me get you some more."

Zenith goes home grinning, stuffed to the brim with food and love.

+++

The next day, all of Zenith's friends turn up at their door.

"We've all been talking, Z. We wanted to tell you in person: You're the most important thing in our lives. It's time we acted like it."

From then on, Zenith is hardly ever alone--except when they ask for a little time to themself, of course. Someone is always ready to lend an ear, or join them on the couch or on a walk or even in bed when they require some company. Their every need is promptly and lovingly met. Their bed is made, their clothes and linens washed and folded. Their apartment is swept and scrubbed. Appointments are scheduled for them, and they are ferried dutifully to the doctor, the dentist, the store, the cafe, to where-ever they wish. The dishes are done--done often, as there is always a home-cooked spread at mealtime, and always a snack or morsel whenever Zenith feels the slightest bit peckish.

Zenith is never hungry for more than a moment--and this has a dramatic affect on their waistline.

Outgrowing my clothes! they post to their blog. Hot fatty summer!

+++

When Mother's Day comes again the following year, all of Zenith's friends' mothers turn up, smiling and tutting. Each one prepares a dish, her specialty, and insists that a now very fat Zenith accept second and third helpings.

When clothes that fit become very hard to find, Zenith's friends are happy to make some.

When it becomes too difficult to climb the stairs up to their apartment, everyone pitches in to rent a new one. A ground floor unit with nice, wide doorways.

When initimate personal care becomes impossible for Zenith to tend to on their own, there is a rotating roster of volunteers ready to bathe and dress them.

As Zenith steadily expands, caring for them becomes more logistically complex, a full time affair. Spouses, lovers, and relatives are enlisted to join in the work. Always happily, always with a smile. "We love you, Z. Anything for you."

Perhaps things are getting a bit out of hand… Zenith thinks, fleetingly. It is a bit inconvenient, as the wider world is not made for people who are as large as Zenith has become. But then a twinge of hunger distracts them, and they reach for whatever treat--a cookie, a brownie--is always there at hand, piled tidily on a platter, warm from the oven.

+++

In the midst of Thursday night board games, a timer dings.

"Whose turn is it to check Zenith?"

The designated attendant happily jumps up and bounds into the bedroom. "Need anything Z? Some more water?" "Unnh," a thick voice groans in reply.

Propped up on the bed, covering the entire surface from edge to edge, is a huge heap of flesh. Pampered and stuffed day in and day out, Zenith has grown too fat to move under their own power. Their world is confined to the four walls of the bedroom now.

"Thirsty?"

A cup of fresh water is held to their lips so that they can drink. Their friend has to lean close against their side to reach their face where it rests upturned atop the mound of their body. Deep within their immense belly, their stomach growls.

"Ah, hungry!"

Zenith's mind rebels. Their round, useless hands twitch in impotent protest. But their body responds by opening their mouth to welcome the morsels that are gently pushed into it. Because it's true: they are hungry. So very hungry. Their stomach has been stretched to cavernous capacity. Their body has grown accustomed to a constant stream of food, and it has been over an hour since they last ate.

Tears pool atop their great flabby cheeks as they are fed, eating and eating until temporarily sated again. This is their existence now. Washed and petted and lovingly tended to. Fed. Fed and fed and fed, helpless to do anything now except eat and grow.

Once they are finally satiated, for the time being, their friend cleans their teeth and wipes their face. The bedframe creaks ominously.

+++

"Hey, I think Z is lonely in there."

"Hm. Makes sense. I wish they could join us out here, or that we could all fit together around a table."

"They deserve to literally be at the center of a space, since they're the center of our lives. You know? Right in the heart of everything."

"It's definitely something to think about."

From the bedroom comes a CRACK and a thud and a pitiful, muffled yelp. Everyone leaps up and rushes in to soothe and settle their beloved. The bedframe has collapsed beneath the burden of Z's immense and ever-climbing weight.

+++

They've dubbed themselves the Z Crew, and so the new place is called the Z House. A nice big house, with the first floor built on an open plan.

They moved Z into their new, permanent home just in the nick of time. Had they waited much longer, Z would have grown too large to move. As it was, transporting them was an expensive and delicate affair. Hydraulic equipment was needed to lift Z off of the flattened mattress in the old apartment. Walls were removed, a crane and flatbed rented.

But in the end, it all went smoothly. Now, here in the airy, light-filled space, rests their beloved Z. The living heart of the home.

The Z Crew is always happy to chatter and coo at Z while they go about the unceasing work of feeding, washing, and tending their beloved, but Z themself cannot speak anymore. They have swelled into a monstrous blob. By now their weight is unguessable. Their hands and feet and limbs have long since disappeared into their general mass. There is no neck, no discernable head--only eyes, nose, and mouth sunk deep into a mire of flesh, upturned toward the ceiling. Lips always parted, ready to receive the next morsel of food.

The Z Crew has to climb up on top of Z to feed them now. The slopes of Z's body have become a cherished communal space, where friends recline and talk, lovers cuddle, and games and meals are enjoyed. They are all blissfully content, now that Z has crowded out every other care and commitment and become the center of their lives forever.

As for Z, they have forgotten what it was like to be anyone or anything else other than their friends' burgeoning beloved. They know nothing but fleeting hunger and sweet satiety; the shifting warmth of their friends' bodies against their own bulk; and the inescapable sensation of their own unfathomable weight.

[moodmother]

Witch's Dozen - Part I

"Aha!"

A claw-like grip seizes her arm, just as her fingertips have brushed one of the biscuits on the windowsill.

She must have taken a wrong turn somewhere on her long walk home through the forest. Standing in a desolate clearing, she came upon a lonely cabin, hardly more than a shack. And there, in the open window, a tray of shortbread cookies set to cool. And she is so very hungry, and there had seemed to be no one around.

The old woman gripping her arm is gaunt and stooped but terrifyingly strong. Silver hair hangs in long curtains on either side of her wolfish face. She bares sharp grey teeth in a cruel grin.

"I was just about to feed the hogs, and here's a new one come swaggering in. Wants all the shortbread for herself, I reckon."

The younger woman, the interloper, tries to speak, to explain. But the hag reaches across her, picks up one of the biscuits, and goes on: "You must be greedy as a hog to come thieving food that's not yours. Lucky for you, these are made special, with hogs in mind." The hag drags the young woman around the side of the shack, to a pigsty where a dozen skinny, mean-looking animals root about in the dirt. 

"Special," the hag repeats, still grinning. She holds up the biscuit. "Watch." She lobs it into the sty, where one of the hogs snaps it up.

Before the younger woman's eyes, the hog begins to change. It swells outward in every direction. Its eyes sink into soft drooping jowls. Its sides and rump bloat out, and its belly sags down so that it nearly brushes the ground. After the transformation, what had been a quick, lean animal now lumbers around the sty, laboring beneath its own bulk.

"Twice the weight it was before," growls the hag.

+++

Suddenly they are not out beside the hog pen anymore. The young woman blinks in the dim, dusty light, and realizes that they must be inside the witch's cabin. To her right is the hearth and to her left a bed. Drying herbs and flowers hang from the low ceiling. She is seated before a table, and the hag looms over her. The shortbread biscuits are piled ominously onto a plate in front of her.

"Made a baker's dozen," the witch murmurs into the woman's ear. "So there are twelve left. Supposed to be for the hogs, but this hog here thinks she owns the place. Thinks the whole batch is for her."

Fear jolts through the young woman's chest. She tries to stand but the hag grips her shoulder and pushes her back down into the chair. Twice what it had weighed before. The woman is a sturdy young farmwife, lean and in her prime; 150 pounds, give or take.

She opens her mouth to protest--and like a flash the hag shoves a biscuit into it. Some irresistible force compels her to chew and swallow. It is slightly sweet, but mostly it is powerfully unctuous. The buttery oiliness of it coats her mouth and throat, and seems to fill her stomach and then her skin.

The seams of her clothes pinch as her body swells. They strain painfully against her skin, and then start to give way. Every part of her bulges out heavy and soft. Her belly presses against the edge of the table. The heft of her breasts tugs downward, straining the fabric of her dress. She cannot see her own face, but she can feel the fullness in her cheeks, the weight of a jowl that has formed beneath her chin. Beneath her, she can feel the edges of her buttocks swell out across the seat of the chair and sag slightly over the sides. When the changes have stopped, she sits quivering and fat, crammed painfully into her straining clothes.

Shocked, too shocked to weep or scream, she tries again to say something. To protest or plead. But the hag just stuffs another biscuit into her mouth.

The sensation of growing is itself so strange. A tickling almost, a warm queer trembling, across her entire body, deep within her flesh. And then a flood of pressure, of filling up from some unseen well, her body a helpless vessel.

The edge of the table digs into her belly, which swells up into a fleshy heap and finally creeps out to hang over her knees. Her huge, shapeless breasts snap free of her dress. Any remaining seams give way and burst against her burgeoning bulk; her dress, shift, and underwear all tear away.

She becomes terribly aware of how her enormous underside--her thighs and buttocks--is overflowing the seat and sagging down toward the ground. The chair creaks with the strain.

She can feel it around her jaw, as her neck is swallowed up by her chins. Her back and sides bloat out so that her heavy arms cannot hang freely at her sides. She rests her forearms on the table, and watches in horror as her very fingers swell.

The chair finally breaks. She tumbles to the ground, naked. Big enough now to be someone that her former self might have gawked at. The size of a circus fat lady.

The hag cackles. Tears sting the younger woman's eyes.

"Learned our lesson, have we?" The hag reaches out an arm as if to help the woman up. And after some struggling, she does manage to stand, bracing herself against the hag's inhuman strength.

She is in shock. This is terrible, unthinkable…but she can carry on. People do, after all. She will live her life. Just differently--that's all. Just as soon as she escapes this awful place.

As she moves to stagger around the table toward the door, the hag laughs again. A horrible, cruel, mocking laugh. And the younger woman finds herself rooted in place, held still, trapped not by her weight but by some invisible force. Just standing, trembling but inert.

The hag shoves a third biscuit into her mouth. And the feeling washes over her yet again, the sensation of filling up. Still held in place, she feels her back and sides swell out, propping up her useless arms. Her upper arms billow into dimpled sacks of fat, and a deep crease forms at the joints between her hands and bloated wrists. Hips and sides and back and buttocks all merge into a great mass of flesh, and gravity pulls the heavy rolls down toward the floor.

Her belly bloats out, and out, and out, so that she staggers backward beneath its weight. Then gravity prevails, dragging the entire mass of it downward. With a soft pat, the lower edge of her tremendous belly hits the floor. Beneath it, her feet are buried beneath the overhanging flesh of her lower legs.

Her neck is gone completely now, her head propped up on a thick collar of fat.

The table has been nudged away by her expanding mass, but the witch somehow hovers close, holding the remaining biscuits piled up in her apron.

"Now," the hag hisses, "you're about as heavy as any hog or human has ever been. Soak that in a bit. I got nine biscuits left, and I won't see them go to waste."

The hideous, impossible implications flood the woman’s mind. “Nooo” she begins to moan, but the hag just crams a fourth biscuit into her mouth....

[moodmother]

Witch's Dozen - Part II

The woman’s legs are already straining to support her. As she begins to grow again, her knees--even buried as they are within deepening folds of fat--start to tremble beneath the relentlessly growing burden. She fears that they will give out, that her impossible weight will rend her joints. But behind her she feels something shift; the enormous swells of flesh that had been her buttocks have now reached the floor.

Her body continues to fatten in every direction. Her immense belly and legs, and her monstrous, impossible ass, flow out along the floor and heap up onto themselves. Her flesh itself begins to support some of its own weight, taking just enough strain off of her legs. Her feet have disappeared, smothered as her calves swell out and succumb to the tug of gravity.

The growth, the filling up, seems to last much longer. The sensation of it is becoming familiar. Because of this, the woman’s dread of it has blunted, dulled by anticipation. And the realization of this fact is a horror in itself.

Her cheeks begin to merge with the massive collar of flesh that was once her neck and chins. And that flesh, in turn, merges with the outward swelling rolls of her back, and sags out in front to rest atop the formless heaps that were her breasts. As the growth finally subsides, her hands have nearly been swallowed up by her impossible forearms, which are themselves overhung by the vast mounds of fat that were her upper arms. Her arms are truly useless now, far too heavy for her to move.

She can still turn her head a bit, and she looks this way and that across the expanse of her new body. She now dominates the interior of the shack. The table has been pushed across the room by her mountainous belly. Her sides seem very close now to the bed and kitchen. The shack has three windows that she can see: one on either side of the front door, which she faces, and one above the kitchen counter beside the hearth. Bright sunlight streams in, glittering off of dust motes and dappling her skin with little pools of warmth.

She tries to shift herself, to move in any way that she can. Her mass simply jerks and jiggles with the effort. Beneath her the floorboards creak. She is now fixed in place without the aid of sinister magic, held fast by the weight of her own bulk. Larger than any person has ever been before: over a ton, nearly a ton and a quarter of human flesh.

“Uncharted territory now,” the hag’s voice hisses into her ear somehow. The crone is perched on top of her, on a region that ought to be her shoulder. Cradling those biscuits in her apron, holding one of them toward the woman’s mouth. The woman can only gurgle in impotent protest as that fifth biscuit is crammed between her lips. Again, helplessly, she chews and swallows. She braces herself for the sensation of the growth.

It sweeps over her in waves, all the more horrible because, this time, it isn’t so horrible. There is even an awful pleasure in its intensity. The sensation seems to amplify as her mass increases, as if she simply had more flesh to feel it with.

The waves of pressure ripple again through every inch and particle of her body, and this time the filling up seems to last for hours. The floorboards groan as she expands outward on all sides. Gravity pulls the massive rolls of flesh down and down so that she spreads across the floor. The soft, monstrous blob of her body takes on the rough shape of a dome, fat oozing outward from her center like coursing lava.

Her calves, which have long since buried her feet, are themselves nearly overtaken by the enormous forms that were her thighs and hips. These impossible masses of flesh wrap around to merge with her vast buttocks, and continue to swell inexorably toward the walls of the shack.

Her breasts are cascades of fat pressed out against the top of her obscene belly. Her jaw has long since sunk into the mire of flesh; there is no glimpse of bone to define the shape of her face anymore.

Her hands finally disappear, swallowed up by her forearms. Her upper arms bear down with their own impossible bulk, two distinct hills of flesh that then begin to merge with the titanic swells that were once her chest and upper back.

The overwhelming thrill of the filling sensation is interrupted by a poke of external pressure: one of her sides is beginning to press up against a corner of the bed. On the other side, the edge of the fireplace draws dangerously close.

When this wave of growth finally ceases, she not only dominates but nearly fills the tiny cabin. Slightly wider front to back than she is from side to side, the edges of her belly and buttocks rest inches away from the front and back doors. The table has been shoved against a wall, and its legs poke into her soft, yielding bulk. Beneath her, the floorboards creak and groan, protesting the burden of her impossible body.

She can do nothing but rest there, “standing” suspended within her own gelatinous mass. In the momentary quiet, the only way to cope with the shock of being so huge, and so helpless, is to grasp at a frame of reference through which to comprehend her size. She weighs somewhere shy of two and a half tons now. As yet unheard of for a human being, but still fathomable. Roughly as heavy as a big wagon trailer, she reckons, or the pair of draft horses or oxen that might pull it. The size of an everyday thing.

“Not even close yet, dearie,” murmurs the hideous voice in her ear. “I reckon you’ll eat me out of house and home.” And a sixth biscuit is shoved into her mouth and down her throat.

She braces again. The pressure, the sensation of her whole body being filled, crammed full from some unseen and endless source, sweeps through her so powerfully that she gasps. Her form surges outward in an inexorable tide. Her outermost edges begin to touch the walls of the shack.

Amid the thrill of growth, panic grips her heart. Whatever is about to happen, she is helpless to do anything but grow. Steadily, maddeningly, she swells ever larger.

The table splinters against the weight of her titanic belly. The bed soon follows, crushed by the smothering mass of flesh that surges out and out, ceaselessly. Cabinetry and counters crumble. Underneath her, the floorboards finally crack. Out at her farthest-flung regions, she presses up flush against the walls. Unable, for now, to keep expanding outward, her flesh instead heaps up upon itself, creeping upward toward the windows.

Her face, the sole human feature that remains, adrift in a sea of flesh, is tilted upward. She stares dumbly at the rafters. Then, with another chorus of groans from the splintering floorboards, the ceiling seems to dip slowly closer. Her flesh, still multiplying, desperate for room, is filling in beneath her, pushing the buried core of her body upward.

When this endless, agonizing wave of growth is over, a mass of flesh fills the witch’s shack. The floorboards have given way, crushed between her bulk and the foundation underneath. The thing that was once a woman tries again to comprehend her own size, to rationalize and reassure herself. Six biscuits so far. And so how much does she weigh now? Somewhere shy of 5 tons. Not completely monstrous, surely. How big is an elephant? Could she be about the size of an elephant now?

Six biscuits. So there are six biscuits left.

[moodmother]

Queen

Rumors spread in the sleepy neighboring town about a strange, deep droning sound in the woods. By the time the weakness in the ventilation system has been identified and fixed, the bees have been located: the hive has taken up in a small abandoned house set well into the forest at the edge of a state park.

"The bees are engineered with a built-in kill switch," Josh tells Jun as they pull up in front of the house. They can already hear the hive: a low, constant rumble in the air. "A specific protein that their bodies don't naturally produce. They need to get it from the feed they give them at the lab. Without it, they might last a few months, tops."

The bees are also stingless. Which is fortunate, because they are also enormous: about the size and shape of paw paw fruit. They are covered in a pale pinky-orange fur, with deep brown stripes and white rumps.

The men need to lure the hive into the back of the truck, then neutralize and bag up any stragglers. A clean-up crew will follow to remove any comb. If they cannot identify and grab the queen to draw the others, they can use a pheromone solution that Josh carries in a dispenser on his belt.

The buzzing grows louder as they walk up to the door, and is almost oppressive as they step inside. Here and there a single bee flies in and out of the broken windows.

"It sounds like they're d--" Josh is cut off as he steps forward and disappears. With a great crash, faster than he or Jun can even cry out, he falls straight down through the rotten floorboards.

"Josh! Are you okay?"

Josh only groans in pain.

"Josh?"

"Unh...my fucking...I think I broke something...."

"Just hold on!! I'll get some help!"

+++

The higher-ups at the lab forbid Jun or his superiors from contacting any emergency services. It is bad enough that the bees escaped in the first place. Their existence is a precious secret. They have been spliced with certain human genes, specifically engineered to produce vast quantities of a special royal jelly. Initial tests of the substance are extremely promising: administered as a supplement, it structurally rejuvenates aging skin and joints, and measurably invigorates the mind. If further refined for medical applications, its potential is endless. They have a genuine cure-all on their hands. No one is to know about the bees until GenCyc and its shareholders can safely profit from them.

+++

Josh has fallen onto the vial of pheromone and coated himself in it. As he rolls on the dirt floor, buffeted by angry bees, he feels something crunch and burst beneath his hip.

After the pain has subsided somewhat, he finds his flashlight. Here is the hive: hundreds of enormous bees swarming in the dark basement, warming the air and deafening him with their great wings.

He grimaces when he sees that the bee he has crushed is pale pink and longer than his palm. The queen.

Amid the insect bodies bouncing against him like tennis balls, he tries to lift himself up and yelps with pain. His wrist is broken. One of his legs is sprained badly enough that it will not support his weight.

Holding the light in his mouth, Josh drags himself to the wall and wriggles up into a sitting position against it. He will wait here for help. Thank goodness the bees do not sting.

Stingless or not, the hive grows more and more agitated. Then, suddenly, they stop flying into him. Instead, all at once, they swam over him in a single wave. He screams but the sound is muffled by their furry bodies. He struggles, tries to flail, but finds that the weight of many hundreds of giant insects is enough to hold his body in place. +++

The proposed course of action is simple: send a handful of employees to quietly extricate Josh. But an unfortunate wrinkle derails even that. The house and the lot are not quite abandoned: the owner is still alive, and has heard tell of trespassers. The police have been advised and have posted a patrol to monitor the turn-off onto the dirt road that leads to the property. GenCyc staff cannot approach without proffering an explanation and attracting an unwanted escort, or without risking discovery if they make an attempt surreptitiously.

Joshua fell, what, maybe six feet? "He's fine," they say. "He'll make his way out on his own. He signed his contract, he knew the risks."

In the meantime, they will regroup and develop a plan for the much more important project of retrieving the bees.

+++

Josh cannot move. The bees have fixed him to the wall with strong wax. They are no longer agitated, but they are busy, building their comb around him...and filling his mouth and throat with honey and royal jelly. At first he gags and tries to spit out the cloying goop, but they are relentless. He has to swallow to avoid choking.

Trapped there in the dark, endlessly fed by the bees, Josh is completely helpless as he feels his body begin to change.

+++

The cover story is that there is a special fungus on the land where the house sits. A rare specimen of significant medical interest. GenCyc is happy to buy the property as-is, sight-unseen. The owner need only name her price.

+++

Josh is so, so heavy. He has swelled like a monstrous fungal bloom against the wall. Billowed in every direction, burst out of his clothes. He can feel the hard-packed dirt of the floor against the underside of his belly.

He is vaguely aware that his body is not only growing but changing shape. His limbs are still slender and have atrophied to uselessness, while the rest of him burgeons into a huge overstuffed sausage, stretching his skin into a slick white membrane.

His hair falls away. His teeth come loose and fall out and he swallows them, and his mouth becomes a drooling pulpy maw, constantly agape. His attendants feed him constantly, keeping him full to bursting with the sweet agent of his transformation.

The matrix of wax is no longer holding his body to the wall, but it has not been necessary for some time. In this new form he could not escape if he tried.

+++

Six months pass before GenCyc can take possession of the property. Too late for the hive, but they will gather whatever is left. Clean up the scene. An expensive setback, but only a setback. A financial hiccup in the larger scheme of things.

Jun is allowed to accompany the recovery team, but is not part of the group that enters the house in white hazmat suits. Marching stiffly back with the team, the project lead, pale and dazed-looking, only says, "Get another truck out here. An empty box truck. Let's...get it back to the lab."

It?

"'It?' What's it?" Jun's voice rises and cracks.

"The...the honeycomb. We can salvage the comb. Come on."

"Another truck?"

"It's a big comb."

Then, wordlessly, arms outstretched to guide him, his colleagues move to usher Jun back toward the vehicles. Away from the house.

"You're lying. What happened? Where's Josh?"

"He's not here. He must've--"

Jun breaks away from the others and runs. They call after him, urging him back. But he jumps up the porch steps, dashes through the caution tape, and pushes his way in through the off-kilter door.

The remaining bees buzz in drunken swoops through the heavy air. The floor is littered with the bodies of the others, most lying on their backs, their bodies curled upward and inward. They look and smell to Jun like rotten fruit. Sickly sweet, faintly fermented.

There is the hole in the floor where Josh fell through the rotten boards. Yawning like a hellmouth.

Jun's voice trembles as he calls out, "Josh?"

Over the sound of those last few bees, Jun can hear something below. The distinct sound of something breathing. A sort of...rustle. An unidentifiably wet sort of sound, as of something shifting or rolling over. Something heavy.

Jun fumbles for his flashlight. He kneels to get a better angle down into the basement.

At the sight of the thing that lies there, heaped up beside pillars of comb and groaning from the shock of the light, Jun screams. He does not remember turning to run out, or stumbling down the front steps. One moment he was peering down through the broken floor, the next he is writhing on his back outside, tended by a handful of fellow employees. Gasping Josh's name over and over and over.

In the years that follow, Jun will bolt awake whenever flashes of what he saw return to him in dreams. A heap of white translucent flesh. Softly segmented, pulsing gently. Sightless milky eyes. Vestigial limbs twitching against the bulk of its hideously elongated body. A grub, a human grub, a grub inflated to unthinkable size. Moaning with the familiar, distorted voice of a man.

+++

The PI and the others confer about how best to safely lift the thing from the basement and transfer it into the truck. Its growth has been tremendous in the intervening months, and it must weigh many, many hundreds of pounds.

The immovable thing that used to be Josh awaits its fate. Unsuspecting, unthinking. Aware only of its vast and growing hunger, and the cold seeping in through the cracked foundation, and the lonely silence left in the absence of its insistent and devoted servants.

[moodmother]

Endless Pancakes - Intro

Jen loves to find places like this. Bustling little greasy spoons. It makes traveling for work a little bit less of a pain in the ass.

Settling alone into a booth, she breathes deep the comforting miasma of fresh coffee, the richly seasoned surface of the flat top, and just a slight gentle undertone of bleach.

Her stomach is growling and some classic diner pancakes will definitely hit the spot. "Hm," she utters aloud to herself as she scans the menu: $5 for a short stack of two pancakes; $7 for a regular stack of three; $10 for a "Hungry Man" stack of five; and a small inset that simply says "Don't ask about our Endless Pancakes."

Four or five pancakes does sound about right. But she is awfully hungry, and intrigued by the "Don't ask" verbiage.

"Excuse me," she asks when the waitress appears, "of course I have to ask: What's the deal with the 'endless pancakes?'"

The waitress, a leathery woman of indeterminate age, flatly replies "They're endless."

"Oh, sure. I mean, how much are they?"

"No charge."

Jen tilts her head. "You mean free pancakes? You mean instead of paying ten bucks for five pancakes, I can order the 'endless pancakes' and eat five of them for free?"

"No, it's endless pancakes."

"So there's a minimum order?"

The waitress raises an eyebrow. "No. It's endless pancakes."

"Well, is there a maximum order?"

"No. They're endless."

"Okay…. I mean, I am dying for some pancakes, and I'm trying to figure out why I shouldn't just order the 'endless pancakes,' if they're free and there's no catch. I mean, I can see why it says 'Don't ask' if you're just giving away free pancakes!"

"Didn't say there was 'no catch.'"

"Okay then, so what is the catch?"

"They're endless. It's endless pancakes."

Jen huffs out a sigh, exasperated. "Well, let me get the 'endless pancakes,' then. With a coffee and a side of bacon."

Suddenly the waitress is no longer impassive, but instead she seems…excited? Angry? Afraid? "Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

"Ma'am, these are endless pancakes. You're sure you want the endless pancakes?"

"Yes! Yes, I'm sure!"

"Okay. I'll put that right in for you. Go ahead and…make yourself comfortable."

+++ To be continued....

[moodmother]

Witch's Dozen - Part IV - End

Blessedly, the hag is still there, crouched atop the blob. Wordlessly, she slips a tenth biscuit into the thing's mouth. As the thing swallows eagerly, its cheeks, already wider than wagon wheels, swell out once more, spreading across the upper surface of the mass, merging fully with the monstrous jowl and upper back to form a thick, singular layer of burgeoning flesh. Not to be quite overtaken, the masses that had been the upper arms burgeon to unthinkable proportions, to the size of horse carts and beyond.

Again the whole mass grows taller as its new bulk seeks room and purchase within its billowing skin. But gravity is as cruel as ever, crushing down to drive most of the multiplying mass across the ground. Foot after foot of grass, in every direction, is trampled, consumed beneath a tide of flesh.

It takes hours for the thing to reach its next plateau. The sun is hanging low in the sky, its rays lancing harsh against the surface of the impossible blob. The thing cannot know and does not care, but its weight is now comparable to whole barnful of cows.

The thing is a feature of the landscape now. A fleshy, gently-sloping hill unto itself.  The face is still there, floating at the apex of the mass, eyes fixed on the darkening sky. The sky is just about all that it can see. The sky and, at the periphery of its vision, the nearest edge of its own endless expanse of flesh. Its own body forms the very horizon, and it will never see anything else. However long it may have taken, the growth has felt cruelly short. Too soon, the thing is left again with only itself and its own crushing, maddening immensity. The sky seems to taunt it. The breeze blows cold against its acreage of skin and it can do nothing. Nothing but sit, inert and vast.

It needs to grow. And before it can cry out in frustration, the eleventh shortbread biscuit is slid down into its gullet. The sensation of its unfathomable mass growing yet again, every particle quivering with the pressure of being filled once more from that demonic source, is exquisite.

The sun sets as the thing swells out into the clearing around it, a sea of flesh surging hungrily toward the horizon. And the mass is still growing steadily as darkness falls and stars appear. Amid the ecstasy of its relentless growth, the stars seem to pulsate, urging it on to bloat out bigger, and bigger, and bigger. It can feel as the cool wet grass slips beneath the rolling tide of its furthermost edges. It smothers and crushes all other life in its path, filling the landscape with itself. And yet the stars are unreachable. It grows upward only by another few feet, the secret hidden core of its body, the miniscule part of it that was once a human being, buoyed upward by the tons of fat and skin filling in beneath it.

In the small hours of morning, just as dawn is about to break, the thing becomes dimly aware that it has stopped growing yet again. Its size is beyond all possibility. Its sheer oceanic weight has squeezed out any lingering human thoughts and impulses from its brain. The very concept of movement is a distant memory. It has become one with a landscape that it cannot see, and will never see again. Nearly the entire clearing--the grass and flowers and crawling animals--has been obliterated beneath its bulk.

The face that still floats atop the thing is not visible from the ground. Its surface, mounded with rolls and heaps of yielding skin and fat, is covered, of course, with soft skin, but there is nothing about it to indicate that it has ever been a human. Not even a singular vertical cleft could reliably mark what have once been firm buttocks, because multiple clefts cut into the sides of the thing, around the sweep of its glacial belly.

As the warmth of day blooms across its skin, the thing can only quiver in fury. It is left inert again, mocked by that endless blue sky. Far, far too big, driven mad by the immense weight of its own bulk crushing down upon itself. And yet also pitifully small. It is driven by a singular need to grow ever larger, to lose itself forever in that sweet sensation of growth. It longs to crush the very earth and surge out endlessly to fill that empty sky.

Somehow the hag is still there. "End of the line," she whispers to the thing. Her gnarled hand pushes the final biscuit into its mouth. Greedily it swallows and is rewarded with the magnificent ecstasy of growth. The sweet agonizing pressure explodes across every cubic micron of its bulk.

The thing is a horror. An inexorable tide of fat smothering the landscape. It has no separate parts or features anymore. Just endless flesh pouring out from its center in ever-widening terraces. It becomes the heaviest creature on earth, heavier than the largest whale that will ever be measured. It even threatens to outgrow the clearing itself, its outermost edges pressing up against the trunks of the surrounding trees.

Flesh just heaps senselessly upon itself, swelling wider, and wider, and wider, and finally higher. The thing swells slowly upward, the center of the vast dome rising toward the sky. And then...the horizon of its own flesh rises up around the edges of its vision. The sky is obscured and then blotted out. The face sinks deeper and deeper into the mire of fat that was once its cheeks and jowls until no semblance of humanity remains. Eyes, nose, and mouth are finally covered over completely, vanished into the mass. The witch's cruel laughter rings out and then fades into silence. The thing that was once a woman is finally, ultimately, smothered by its own bulk.

+++

The squeal of a pig from somewhere behind the cabin snaps the woman back to reality. With a shiver, she shakes off the lingering horror of her strange daydream, and turns away from the tray of shortbread biscuits cooling on the windowsill. She has lost her way, and she is very hungry, but it can't be far.

And sure enough, on the other side of the clearing, she regains the track. Amid the clamor of late morning birdsong, she makes her way safely home.