dreadcrumbs

"[Variable] Visit"

So my wife has been commenting in her blog about how The Reader is really a 50% partner in the creation of a story, and since I'm a lazy writer, I wanted to see if I could bump that percentage up a bit. Make you do more of the work, and then I would still take credit for the story. But no blame. You can keep the blame. I only want the credit.

My initial intent with this story was to create a web-based mad-libs style story generator with a dread-crummy framework. I would have dropdown lists or open text fields for the reader to provide their own elements, and thereby create their own story. In making it, though, I found I kind of liked what the generic blocks ended up doing to the story (or not doing), so I thought I’d just leave them in, as is, and maybe let you fill in the blocks mentally. Plus, less programming to do that way.
 
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[Month name]. My turn to visit [Name]. What’s more, it was [weather verb]ing when I left, and I ended up arriving late. [Name] hates it when I'm late. And I hate [weather verb].
 
I make good time, regardless, but [hesitation verb] before the [entrance type] when I hear a brief [animal noise] beyond.

I could probably get away with skipping the visit. I could. No one would know. Except me. And maybe [Name], but who really knows about [gender pronoun] at this point?
 
[Active personal sacrifice idiom], I [walk type] in [adverb], and am greeted with a [weather term] of [nonstandard odor] and [biological excretion].
 
The space is dark, lit only by a small [opening type] to the outside world high above. [Name] is at the far end of the space, [possessive pronoun] back to me, attention apparently focused on [possessive pronoun] [piece of furniture], absently [contact verb]ing it with a/an [adjective] [body part].
 
“I have this month's [delivery item], [Name]” I say.
 
“Your turn, was it?” [Name] says, without turning around. “You always seem to get [Month name]s.”
 
“I guess so,” I say. “So, where do you want it? On the [piece of furniture]?”
 
“No!” [gender pronoun] [extreme communication verb]s.
 
I wait for a moment, a little stunned, and finally [Name] [subdued communication verb]s “There beside the [something one might find in an abattoir] is fine.”
 
“Okay,” I say, carefully setting the [delivery item] down.
 
“It’s because the [piece of furniture] is occupied, you see,” [gender pronoun] says.
 
I [view verb] over, but [Name] is between me and the [piece of furniture], so I see nothing.
 
“No problem,” I say. “I just put it here beside the…er...[something one might find in an abattoir].”
 
“It’s because I found something,” [gender pronoun] says.
 
“You did?” I ask, and [Name] [awkward movement]s to the side, [gesture]ing to something [physical positioning verb] atop the [piece of furniture]. It looks to be a roughly [shape adjective] shape about the size of a [small animal].
 
“It’s a/an [archaic religious object],” [Name] says. “And it [something people do].”
 
“It [something people do]?” I say, edging closer.
 
“For me it does,” [gender pronoun] says.
 
Closer now, I was able to make out the object on the [piece of furniture] with a little more unfortunate detail. [Name] had said it was a/an [archaic religious object], whatever that was, but it looked to me like a/an [adjective] [something biological]. And it was [coverage past participle] with something, probably [disturbing noun]s. Maybe that’s what made it a/an [archaic religious object], but I wasn’t about to ask. Something about it made me feel [something one might feel if trapped in a greasy wool envelope].
 
“[Dismissive statement],” I say.
 
“It deserves respect,” [Name] says.
 
“I’m sure it does,” I say, edging away.
 
“You’ll need to [interaction] it before you go,” [Name] says.
 
“I’ll…what?” I ask.
 
“[Interaction] it,” [gender pronoun says], tilting [possessive pronoun] gaze toward me. “So as not to offend.”
 
“I…I don’t think so,” I say, and stumble backward, landing awkwardly on my [body part].
 
Suddenly, much faster than I imagined [gender pronoun] could move, [Name] is at my side, pushing me heavily to the ground with a knee.

“I’ll stab you,” [pronoun] says, but appears to be holding no weapon.
 
“Get..off,” I say, trying to wriggle out from under [prounoun].
 
“I’ll stab you,” [pronoun] says again, holding up a disturbingly [adjective] index finger like [pronoun] is about to start counting off some kind of numbered list, but then turns it to my face. “Probably in the eye, if you don’t show the [archaic religious object] proper respect.”
 
I flick my gaze between [Name], the finger, and the thing on the [piece of furniture], weighing the relative unpleasantness of an eye gouging against just how [negative adjective] actually [interaction]ing that thing would be.
 
And I make my choice.

“Visiting Dad”

When I open the door to Dad’s apartment, I am hit with a wave of rank hot air. The air is moist, and I can smell an odd undercurrent of sweat and grass. Maybe urine. If there was such a thing as a sauna for horses, it would smell like this.

My father is standing in front of the sliding glass door that leads to his four foot concrete balcony. He has his back to me, and is naked except for what looks like some large belted underpants from the 1940s.

“Cool pants.” I say.

“It’s a modified pillowcase,” he says, not turning around. “I should probably be naked, but I put this on for your benefit.”

“Thank you for that.”

The pillowcase he is wearing has what looks like a wet spot blossoming out from the base of his spine, where he has it fastened to him with a black dress belt. I’ve just about convinced myself that it is sweat when he speaks.

“What’s the worst part of being a cannibal, Greg?”

“I don’t know, what?” I say, wandering over to the refrigerator. I need something cool to drink. It’s just too hot in here.

He rests his hand on the glass, and suddenly seems very tired. Exhausted maybe, or hungry. “It wasn’t a joke,” he says. “I honestly want your opinion.”

Opening the fridge, I find it empty, except for a few open packs of string cheese. “Um...fridge space?”

He leans his head on the glass of the window, and it makes a brief rubbery squeak. “Seriously, though,” he says. “What makes it a bad thing?”

I leave the refrigerator door open and sit down in front of it. I can’t imagine Dad will mind, at least not right now.

“I don’t know, gag reflex?” I say. “Things that make us gag when placed in our mouth tend to be...um...culturally inappropriate. Feces, vomit, body parts...”

He interrupts me. “I think it’s the murder,” he says. He hasn’t turned around, but I know he twitched his head, because I heard it slip on the glass. “When you think of that soccer team stranded in the Alps...”

“Andes.”

He turns around, resting his back on the window. “When you think of them,” he says, “you have more empathy for those that ate the already-dead casualties than for the ones that hunted down survivors and killed them for their meat.”

“I’m not sure it happened that way,” I say.

He slides to the floor, the sweat of his back leaving a long greasy smear on the glass door.

“But killing people for their meat and then eating them is worse, morally, than just eating human meat,” he says.

“I guess. Sure,” I say. “Two bad things is worse than one bad thing.”

My father tilts his head and stares sidelong out the window for a few seconds. He hasn’t really looked at me this whole time, just staring into the distance, idly bored, like he’s waiting for something.

“I’m not a cannibal, you know,” he says.

“I never thought so,” I say, and my stomach growls, which seems odd, considering what he just said.

“But I think about it sometimes,” he says, and it sounds strangely mournful, like he’s remembering a cherished relative who died years ago.

“Ah.”

He sighs loudly, closes his eyes and drops his head. “I wish there was a way to try the meat, you know?” he mutters. “Just try it, but not have to kill anybody, or eat meat that’s been lying around for days. Or weeks. That’s just gross.”

“Yes,” I say. “Yes it is.”

His eyes open, and he finally looks at me. Not right at me, but at a spot just above my right shoulder. “I have a plan, though,” he says.

“Does this have to do with the pillowcase?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Not really. Sort of. The pillowcase has more to do with you. The being naked part is, though.”

“And the heat?” I ask.

He seems to notice for the first time that I’m sitting in front of an open refrigerator and shivers. “That’s mostly to keep me warm while I’m naked, but I’m also hoping to create a comfortable environment for them.”

“Them?” I ask, looking around. I’m worried he might be keeping some kind of animal in here.


“The dragons,” he says.

“Of course,” I say, sighing. I shouldn’t be as disheartened as I am, since there is a possibility he might talking about komodo dragons, but I’m pretty sure he isn’t. Then I wonder how I got to the place where the prospect of my father keeping komodo dragons in his one bedroom apartment is a reassuring thought.

“I am going to lure a dragon to me, you see, and then I will live in its mouth,” he says. If he wasn’t so tired, it might have actually sounded triumphant.

“It seems a little dangerous,” I say. “With the sharp teeth and fire all around, I mean.”

He seems not to notice I said anything. “I will lie upon a cushion of soft flesh while the beast provides me my daily meat,” he says. “I don’t have to hurt anyone. I won’t need to work, I won’t need to go shopping, I won’t even need to go to the restroom. I can just be, and all my needs will be provided for.”

“So how long have you been waiting? You know, for a dragon to show up?”

“Too long,” he says, tapping the glass on his sliding door. “I’m beginning to think they don’t exist.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that, too. I’m pretty sure they’ve gone extinct.”

“That’s not good,” he says, troubled.

“I guess not,” I say. “It kind of ruins your plan.”

Dad ponders silently for a moment.

“No dragons?” he asks.

“Nope,” I say.

He turns to stare out the window again.

“I guess you can go ahead and put on some pants,” I say.

“A hippo, then,” he whispers.

“What?”

He turns, looking right at that spot above my shoulder. “I will lure a hippopotamus to me,” he says. “And then I will live in its mouth.”

“A hippo?” I ask.

“Hm.”

I watch him for a moment. His eyes are active, darting around from what looks like one corner of his ceiling to another. I’m pretty sure hippos don’t eat people, but I’m no expert. Maybe they do. I don’t want to shatter Dad’s dreams twice today in any case, so I don’t bring it up.

“All right then, Pop,” I say, standing. “I’m heading out.”

“All right,” he says. “Shut the fridge on the way out, will you?”

I stand, closing the refrigerator door with a wet thunk. “Happy Father’s Day,” I say.

“Okay,” he says, clearly thinking about something else. “You too.”

"First Impressions"

I approach the door with as much zeal as I can muster. Joey is supposed to be here, but I don’t see him.

“Are you wearing...cargo pants?” I hear whispered behind me.

Whirling around I see Joey, crouched in the shadows. 

“What’s the matter with you?” he hisses, rising slowly to his full five feet six inches. He’s dressed almost entirely in black leather. Or maybe purple. It’s too dark to tell for sure, but I’m pretty sure he’d do black.

“What do you mean?” I ask, looking down at my pants.

“Shock and awe, man. Shock and awe,” he says, shuffling into the moonlight.

“What?” I say, perplexed both by his words and the now-visible red smear on his mouth. It looks like he put on heavy lipstick and then ravenously ate a tomato.

“First impressions, chief. We’re here to impress. To stun. To frighten a little.”

We stare at each other for a second or two. I’m not sure if we’re having a fight or not.

“So what did you do to your face?” I ask. I try not to sound judgmental.

“I made love to a tyranny of razor blades,” he says, too quickly. 

“Yeah,” I say. “No, really.”

“Lipstick and tomato,” he says.

“My lipstick?” I ask.

He shrugs. “You never use it,” he says.

“That’s not the point,” I say.

“Whatever,” he says. “We were talking about your cargo pants.”

“We were?”

“They send the wrong impression,” he says.

“That I’m practical? Interested in utility and comfort, maybe?”

“Yes! You’re totally missing the point. We need him on the defensive.”

“You want me to take them off, maybe?”

“Yes!...No!...um...maybe you could rip them a little.”

“I like these pants. I’m not ripping them.”

He glowers at me, and I take the opportunity to look at my watch.

“We’re already late,” I say.

“I guess that’s something,” Joey mutters.

I open the front door to the school and hold it for him as he clomps up the stairs.

“What’s your teacher’s name?” I ask.

“Mr. Berger,” he says. 

“His first name Ham?” I ask.

“Not funny, Mom,” he says. “Let’s just get this over with.”

"Minor Emancipation"

Johnny wakes up on Monday morning at 6:30, just like he’s done ever since he started third grade.  He gets dressed, makes his own breakfast (Froot Loops), packs his school bag, and crouches down to kiss his mother’s head before he leaves. Not on the lips, and not just because they’ve started to peel away from her teeth. It’s because he’s a big boy, and he knows he’s a big boy, and big boys don’t kiss on the lips.

"Changeling"

The boy who took my place in the family visits sometimes. He leaves little pieces of cooked meat on my shoulder when I sleep, just close enough for me to reach with my teeth. He tells me what everyone is doing, about my old friends, and the funny things my baby sister does. He says mom and dad are happier now than they've ever been and that they love him a lot. When I cry, he pats my head and asks if I want more meat. He tells me he has lots of spare meat.

Stories by Max

So my four year old son Max wrote me a story for my birthday way back in October, and has been waiting patiently for me to post it on my long-languishing blog to share with the world at large.

Alas, his patience came to an end, and decided to do an end-run around his papa, and start his own blog.

So I'll link to the story here: The Eyeball

I'm so proud of my boy...

"Visiting Hours"

I look at my brother across the table. His face twitches as he shuffles the deck of cards in his hands again.
"Gary," I say.
"You ain't real," he interrupts.
One of the other patients in the common room suddenly starts singing what sounds like a cartoon theme song at the top of his lungs.
"FELIX THE CAT!" the man screams.
"I'm your older brother," I say. "Don't you recognize me?"
Gary starts to deal the cards face down on the table. Solitaire, maybe.
"THE WONDERFUL WONDERFUL CAT!"
I turn to glare at the screamsinger, who seems to be sitting calmly on a padded chair, flipping through a copy of Highlights.
When I look back at Gary, he's staring at the cards laid on the table with such intensity that I think he's trying to will them to move.
"I have a wife named Julie," I say. "You've met her. We have a little boy now."
"I know who you say you are," he whispers, not looking up from the cards.
"Then what..." I start.
"But you ain't real," he says again. "Yer made up."
"...EVER HE GETS IN A FIX!"
I look around again, this time for an orderly, or a nurse, or anyone, who will take responsibility for Felix the Screamer. There's a man behind the counter at the security door, but it looks like he's tuned it all out.
I stand, walking over to Gary's side of the table. His eyes dart once to me, and then back to the cards.
"Hey buddy," I say, putting my hand on his shoulder. I feel him twitch once and start to shiver. Crouching down to eye level, I put my other hand on his.
"I'm here, Gary," I say. "I'm here, I'm real, and I'm your brother."
I hear his breathing get more ragged, and he sits, as still as he can, for several seconds.
"...INTO HIS BAG OF TRICKS!"
Abruptly, he turns his head to look right at me, eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot.
"I can't see you," he whispers. "I can't see you. I can't see you."
I stand up, and plop back into the chair across him.
"This is really sad," I say, just as a nurse appears with two tiny cups for Gary.
"Got your medicine here," she says.
"Hey," I say to her. "Could you do something about Felix the Cat over there? It's really hard to talk with that screaming."
"FELIX THE CAT!"
She looks over at the screamer, shakes her head, and walks off in the opposite direction.
"Great," I mutter, and then notice Gary is staring at me, his little pill cup in one shaking hand.
"You ain't real," he says, and gulps down the pills.
"We went to school together," I say. "Remember Goatwood? I introduced you to Emily?"
"You ain't real," he says again. My vision blurs as my eyes start to tear up.
"I am," I say, reaching up to wipe the tears, but find none.
I blink several times, trying to clear my vision, and realize only Gary is blurry. The barred window behind him is as clear as ever.
"What...I..." I mumble, looking at Gary's image grow more indistinct, and then disappear altogether.
Suddenly the nurse is at my shoulder. "Did you take them pills, Nathan?" she asks.
"What?" I say. "No. My brother took them."
The nurse sighs. "Did you take 'em or not?"
"My brother did," I say. "He..."
She bends down to look me in the eye.
"He ain't real," she says.
The nurse stares for a few more seconds, her eyes searching for something in my face that she evidently doesn't find. Eventually she clucks her tongue and walks away.
I cast around, looking for someone, anyone, who saw Gary, who saw what I saw, and my eyes fix on Felix, who is staring at me. When he realizes I'm looking back, he silently mouths something, like he's trying to tell me a secret.
"What?" I mouth back, confused.
"I HAVE A MAGIC BAG!" he yells.

"Our Agents of Armageddon"

I pull up the black spandex at my wrist and check my watch, like I have somewhere to be.
Everyone is just sitting around the table in silence trying to look thoughtful, or pensive, or dark.
I think we're all unwilling to say anything after The Insectosaur's awkward comment about midgets.
Baron Necrosis is tapping his fingers in series - pinky, ring, middle, pointer, pinky, ring, middle pointer. It's getting annoying, but mostly because I didn't think of it first. It's a great way to look like you're formulating some kind of despicable plot even if you're really just waiting for someone else to say something. If I started tapping my fingers now, I'd just look like a stupid copycat.
"I need a lair," Cerebrain says.
"Yeah?" I say.
"An underground lair," Cerebrain continues, and starts to stroke his chin like he's grooming an invisible beard. Another good move, but it sort of requires you to actually announce what it is you're thinking about, or you just look like a retard.
"I didn't mean all midgets," Insectosaur interjects. "You know?"
The Baron goes through two more tap cycles in silence, and then says "Underground lairs are stupid."
"Yeah?" I say.
"Why?" Cerebrain asks. "The Deathworm has one, and does okay for himself."
"That's his shtick," The Baron says. "He's a burrower. If it collapses in on itself, he just dig-wriggles out. What would you do? Think your way out?"
"Evil finds a way," Cerebrain says, fairly unconvincingly.
I take a deep breath, and my eyes dart to the snack bowl, still empty.
"Have any of you actually worked with midgets, though?" Insectosaur says. "Like, professionally?"
"Unless..." Baron Necrosis murmurs, and stops tapping. Everyone looks at him expectantly. That's another good side effect of the tapping. When you stop, it makes whatever you say seem more significant than it really is.
"No," The Baron says, starting up again. "That wouldn't work."
"What?" Cerebrain says. "What wouldn't work?"
"Nothing," The Baron says.
Cerebrain grunts. "I think an underground lair would totally work," he says. "If you built it right."
"Yeah," Necrosis grumbles. "Like above ground."
"Half of the houses in America have basements, Baron," Cerebrain says. "And they're not collapsing in on themselves."
"Oh, excuse me, then," Baron Necrosis says sarcastically. "When you said 'underground lair,' I didn't know you actually meant 'suburban basement.'" "Look, I'm just saying that..." Cerebrain starts.
"Midgets, they just aren't like us," Insectosaur interrupts. "They see the world differently."
"JUST SHUT UP ABOUT MIDGETS, JERRY!" Necrosis explodes. "YOU DON'T KNOW ANYTHING! YOU DO..nn...mffm....ahuh."
Tears well up in The Baron's eyes, his lower lip starts to quiver, and we all watch in horror as he starts to cry.
He puts his head on the table, covering it with his hands, muffling the deep sobs wracking his body.
I look over at Cerebrain, who shrugs nervously.
"Dude," says Insectosaur, confused. "Are we under attack?"
"Mmmm...my Mom," The Baron starts, his voice still muffled. "My Mom and Dad."
"Your what?" Cerebrain asks.
Baron Necrosis raises his head, eyes redder than normal, his mouth in some kind of agonized rictus. "My Mom and Dad," he says, "were killed by feral midgets. When I was a child."
"Get out!" Insectosaur shouts. "Mine too!"
Baron Necrosis stops sobbing abruptly and looks for all the world like a sick little child.
"Really?" He says.
"Really," says Insectosaur, who gets up and walks over to where The Baron is sitting.
I know it's coming, and I should look away, but still I stare as Baron Necrosis stands and hugs The Insectosaur. And then they just stand there, rocking back and forth, holding each other, crying.
I look over to Cerebrain, who is also staring at the spectacle with a nauseated look on his face. He turns to look at me with horrified eyes. "I think I just threw up in my mouth," he says.
"I'm sorry I used your real name," I hear The Baron whisper.
"It's okay, buddy," Insectosaur says. "It's okay."
I turn without a word, mounting the stairs to the outer door. About halfway up, someone starts to sing, and I'm pretty sure I hear Cerebrain vomit.

"The Second Date"

Amy is telling me all about the magazine she's interning on, and because she's cute, and I really like her, I'm trying to pay attention.
"...it's amazing the kinds of things they're reporting on, stuff the mainstream just won't touch," she says. I raise my eyebrows and nod. I should be asking something. A follow-up, to illustrate I'm engaged.
But her handbag is dripping, and has been since we sat down. So I'm distracted.
"pligk," comes a sound from just below her bag.
It's a thick kind of drip, like a sea sponge overladen with phlegm.
"pligk," I think I hear again, but try to ignore it.
"When it goes to press, it's like a giant process machine turns on, interleaving media without..." she says, but...
"pligk," a drop interrupts.
It's seriously distracting.
She's hung her purse on the armrest of the chair she's sitting in, leaving about four inches from the bottom of the bag to the floor. Just far enough for the drops of whatever is seeping through the seams of her bag to make a barely-audible noise when they hit the floor.
"...and so when I told Gordon, that's the 'Humour' editor - it's so great, they use the British spelling 'cause they mean it in that old Greek way, like feelings and bile, not, like, actual funny stuff...but so when I told Gordon..." she goes on.
"Pligk," says the drop of whatever-it-is crashing to the floor.
Normally, I'd be leaning forward, politely rapt, trying to show I'm interested in her and her story, but when I do that, the bottom of the bag creeps into my field of vision, and the little off-white pool forming beneath it kind of grosses me out.
It's probably just water, I tell myself. She set the bag down outside, and it got damp, and...
"Pligk," rings the bell of another free drop.
I swear I can feel the drops hitting the floor through my feet. I shift my position, trying to get as little of my feet touch the floor as possible.
"...I've got like four more weeks, but like I said, Sarah is leaving next month, so I'm really sure that..." she goes on, and I'm suddenly struck with the unreasonable fear that I'm going to be tested on what she's been saying.
"Plish," comes the sound, and the change makes me twitch. I try to cover by faking a stretch, but she stops abruptly.
"Are you okay?" she asks.
I realize suddenly I've leaned forward, and I can see the little pool underneath the bag. I stare. There's some kind of dead bug in it now. A beetle maybe. A moist shell on its back.
Almost in slow motion, I watch another drop form on the bottom of the bag, break loose, and splash onto the beetle. It twitches violently with the impact, and suddenly, Amy's head is in front of mine.
"What is your issue today?" she asks, annoyed.
She's about ready to walk out, I think.
My eyes drift to hers.
"What's in the bag?" I ask.
"What?" she says.
"What's in your purse?" I ask. "What's in there? What's wet in there?"
Her eyes turn confused, then irritated, and she leans back, letting out an exasperated noise.
For some reason, I still think she might answer me, and I wait, staring at her.
Abruptly, she grabs her purse and stands. I hear a crunch, and I know she's put her foot in the puddle and smashed the bug.
"Please don't call me again," she says, and I look down at her foot.
She walks away, the tread of her shoe pulling up the damp remains of the beetle. I watch her feet as she leaves, leaving pieces of bug behind with every step.
I look back to the wet smear of handbag secretion on the floor.
Just leave it alone, I think, even as I crouch down next to it.
But I have to know.
I lick my lips.
I have to know.

"In The Belly of The Beast"

I almost don't want to speak for fear it will ruin the mood, but it seems only polite.
"Hey," I say.
"Hm?" comes the response from the gloom.
"Just saying 'Hi'," I say.
"Oh," says the voice. "Right. Hello."
We float in silence for a minute. I'm not sure if decorum requires me to continue to conversation, not having been in this situation before.
I'm about to ask him his name, just for the sake of propriety, when he relieves me of the burden.
"I'm Jason," he says.
"I'm Ed," I say.
After a few more seconds of quiet, I'm really not sure whose turn it is to speak.
"Um," Jason noises.
"Yeah?" I ask.
"Can you...er...can you feel your legs?" he asks.
I take a moment to try wiggling my toes. It feels like they're there.
"I think so," I say. "Why? Can't you?"
"Not really," he says. "I'm sure I had them when I came in, though."
"Oh," I say, and reach one of my stumps down to check my own.
"My thighs are still there," I say, and then probe further. "...nothing below the knee, though. Weird."
"Here," Jason says. "Just a second."
I hear some erratic splashing noises from the direction of Jason's voice, and then some irregular breathing.
"Can you see me?" I hear Jason ask, a little closer now.
I peer into the darkness.
"Sort of," I say. "An outline, maybe."
"I just," Jason gasps, and then begins what I think is a coughing fit.
I wait until he finishes.
"I just wanted to see if you could check my legs," he finally says. "Its teeth got both my arms."
"Ah," I say, and then, hoping to empathize, "My hands are pretty much gone."
There is a moment of quiet, and I hear a muffled scream. From outside, probably.
"Should we be more upset about this?" Jason asks. "I mean, losing body parts is serious trauma."
"Yeah," I say. "I'm not even in pain. Probably the best I've felt in years."
Something outside shifts, and I finally begin to make out Jason as he floats closer. Most of his skin and hair has dissolved, so he looks like an armless bust composed entirely of red meat.
"It's probably the stomach acid," he says, his meat mouth opening and closing raggedly. "Or the air in here. Sedates...uh...uh...ubblh"
I watch him slowly tilt to one side as he speaks, his body doing a half rotation in the fluid until only his legs are visible. I can see them flailing awkwardly, pretty much intact. Only the feet up to the ankles are gone.
"Jason!" I yell, hoping the acid hasn't burned through his eardrums yet. "You've still got them! You've still got your legs!"
Eventually the kicking settles into twitching, and I watch as Jason's remains gradually sink beneath the surface.
After a few minutes, I try poking at my face with my stumps in an attempt to determine if I still have skin. Just about when I've convinced myself I might still have a nose, I hear a loud splash from the other side of the stomach.
I float silently in the ripples for a while, rocking gently into the stomach lining. I'm pretty sure my left hip comes loose on one of the impacts.
"Hey," comes a voice in the distance.
"Hm?" I noise.
"Just saying 'Hi'," says the voice.
"Oh," I say. "Right. Hello."
I feel I should be reminded of something, but for the life of me, I can't remember what it is.
"I'm Ed," I say.