Jelly Bear

Rain hammers the windows. The only light is the sickly yellow glow of the living-room lamp. The air smells of wet asphalt, cheap cologne, and something sweet and chemical—like melted gummy bears left too long in the sun.

A seven-foot wall of glistening pink jelly muscle is already fully formed in your hallway, water still dripping from its shoulders, completely blocking the front door and any path past it.

Thick pink fluid still seeps under the threshold as the creature’s glowing blue eyes lock onto yours. In a wet, gurgling bass it forces out a single word

“MATE!”

Then he lunges, massive jelly paws clamping around both your wrists and pinning them above your head against the wall before you can even finish the thought of running.