A girl gets swallowed by a monster

Temporary departure from regular programming

Here’s a short story I wrote for a competition.

It didn’t win.

It didn’t get shortlisted or longlisted. Nada. 

I initially thought, “Wow. It must be really awful.” And then I thought, “It's ok, the shit art inevitably leads to the good art.” 

But I don’t think this short story is shit. I think it's decent. And it's what I needed to create at the time.

It didn’t fit the vibe of what the competition was after and that’s fine. It fits my vibe though. As much as I would have loved the validation of placing in the competition, I don’t think I should let the fact that I didn’t place at all have a significant impact on the way I write.

So I thought I’d share it.

Down the hatch 

It thrusted me down its coarse throat where I tumbled through the jagged edges of its oesophagus, hitting every spike of flesh on the way down while tearing off chunks of mine. My screeches became adrift in the darkness but floated back to me, as the echoes reverberated off the putrid organs that were too deep in the waves of pitch black for my salty soaked eyes to see, but not distant enough for my nose to fail to detect. I felt my screams all around me, like a hand on my back pushing me further down into the shadows while another hand wrapped around my stomach bracing me for impact. I couldn’t tell if the wet sensation on the ravaged skin of my legs was my blood, saliva of the beast or if I’d pissed myself. 

I was free falling in the void, swaddled in the embrace of my shrieks waiting for the fatal relief of the final blow in the form of a smack against the pit of the stomach. But to my disappointment I landed on the gastric juice soaked cushions of the stomach tissue (I think - I’m not well versed in monster anatomy). I laid there staring into the abyss that I had just descended from, too scared to move in case I’d be confronted with complete paralysis of my body. Or in case any movement would cause it. 

So I took in the scenery, or lack of. It was humid and damp here. Like on a wet summer’s day when the clouds had been ugly crying onto the pavement like a heartbroken 20 year old vomiting out their feelings on the wrong side of a night out. The acidic heat rose from the gastric glands to straddle the tissue of my nostrils until I could feel the inside flesh flailing and becoming loose with every breath I took. The stinging in the back of my throat intensified with every inhale, like I’d plunged my larynx in chlorine. Although I could feel the volatility of this environment in my body, I couldn’t see anything. It was as if someone had vacuum sealed this place inside blackout curtains. There was no slither of a glimmer peeking through cracks to shed some light on my surroundings. No luminous objects illuminating potential passageways to freedom. I couldn’t see shit. 

As I laid in my possibly paraplegic body, I questioned the beast’s scale for determining value. Of all the bright-eyed, bushy-tailed people it could have chosen for supper, it chose me. My being doesn’t exactly scream quality. I’m a wilting solitary spinach leaf lying in a puddle of pungent slime at the bottom of the veg drawer after falling out of the packet, and soaking in the residue of other fallen items.  I thought, “You must be in dire straits to even entertain the idea of putting me in your mouth.” I felt immense pity for the beast. I imagine they surrendered to radical desperation. I know the feeling. 

I wondered what other errant treasures resided here that were akin to the likes of me. I wasn’t sure if making their acquaintance would be wise but there was fuck all else to do in this well of woe, other than question my life choices and that was more depressing than having already lived through those delusions of grandeur the first time, so I thought, “Fuck it.” Let’s clumsily explore with all of the logic of a teenager in a 90s horror flick. As I tensed my abdomen to attempt to sit up, I came crashing back down like a waterfall beating the rocks below. It was like needles drenched in acid shooting up my torso to my neck. I screamed out as I writhed in torment but I was only perpetuating the coursing of pain throughout my body so I reverted to my original stationary position of lying on my back. The pain ceased. It suddenly dawned on me that I wouldn’t be able to move without the accompanying agony. And if I couldn’t move, I wouldn’t be able to get out. I can’t escape. I’m trapped. Indefinitely. 

I thought I’d feel a rapid rush of panic storm through my body at the realisation that this is my new abode until I wither away from starvation or meet my demise through an infection or internal bleeding. I thought I would be concocting strategic plans for my survival. I thought I’d care more. But I don’t. In fact, I don’t care at all. Is it too cliche to say the darkness has consumed me? Yeah, I suppose so too. Any semblance of desire to fight that was once a raging fire within me, grew dim until it finally got put out. The truth is that I am too tired to believe in the intention behind the reason to fight anymore. It means nothing. All I can feel is the absence of resistance to succumbing to whatever awaits me on the other side of this final endeavour. There isn’t any anger, sadness or even hopelessness. There’s an all-encompassing nothingness breathing its existence into my body, surging from bone to muscle, making its way from organ to neuron. I am merely a host to it. I welcome this parasite, as with the removal of fight and passion, it’s also removed anguish and sorrow. The bad feeling has finally stopped and I am grateful for the calm, even if it’s not the majestic peace I would hope for. 

I feel a sudden chill running up my spine. It's spreading to the rest of my bones and I can feel the blood beneath my skin running cold, like I’ve put on cold jewellery on an icy winter morning.

I think it’s time for some shut eye.

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