the host

a short story about a jerk late-night host, a puckered butthole, and the monster inside us all

Alistair Covington lay on his back, paralyzed by some phantom restraints that prevented any struggle. The air was static and cold, its atoms too terrified to move. Above him, a crystalline constellation of pulsing lights adorned a chrome sky. Between their blurs, he could see the blue, bulbous heads of beings he knew not to be of this Earth, what we mig…