Stomach Stories
Hellfire and crimson-covered cobblestones upon which many demons walk and crawl. They move and peruse in utter, relentless anguish. They traverse directionless, shackled in their metaphysical bonds, dragging their hooked and bloodied claws along the stones. These beings are malformed and eerily red, with clipped black wings and deteriorating appendages. Their existence is confusing, and their purpose is futile; they simply meander upon cobblestone roads soaked with decomposition. The streets stretch like vicious veins between blackened buildings. The air is thick and sticky, and rich with acid. It smells of curdled milk and millennia of failed experiments. The atmosphere in this sad city, on this, the wretched eighth layer of Hell, is slowly and endlessly decomposing its inhabitants. No building, cobblestone, blackened wing or demon is safe from the acrid air. Any movement, every shift of the environment, sends another wet building into a crumbling, crumpled stew of biomass. Squishing and sloshing as it congeals and traps nearby travellers, burning and melting what remains of their flesh. The pain is often not significant enough for them to open their accursed maws, for the taste of this air is yet hotter than the building sludge and tenfold as rancid. Yet, the weaker and more destitute among them find no choice but to let their forked tongues fly. Most not for long, as their bodies are quickly burned from the inside out once exposed. Their very last moments are spent in incomprehensibly dire pain and torture. The second their terrifying jaws open, they are simultaneously boiled and screaming in disgusting agony. They look upwards, and with what few moments of consciousness remain, they cannot help but ask and wonder if they will ever get to see what lies beyond the hazy, crimson sky. What, if anything, could possibly be worse or, painfully, better than this confusing existence? Their questions and aspirations may never reach beyond the thick, red sky. But their yells do. They ascend, forming much gentler and quieter versions of a yell incarnate. In the ironic shape, consistency and physical characteristics of an altogether unassuming and innocent bubble. A bubble in multitudes of thousands quickly surfacing to a land entirely and permanently unseen by the demons below.
Their bubbles reach small ponds and marshy wetlands. Varying sizes and colourations of bodies of water are beset and attacked by armies inside reflections. Steadfast and moistened trees pop and quickly disperse upon delicate and short-lived lifespans of the once Hellish-infused bubbles. Now, such bubbles serve so many more uses to the surrounding wilderness. An amusing, oxymoronic, and distorted display upon which to show the eons of organized chaos the swamp persists alongside. How dare these manifestations of madness interrupt and dirty the beauty and unexpected serenity. If only the frogs that frequent these bodies of water could see and appreciate the approachable amusement. Instead, these beautifully ugly and wondrously simple frogs and toads use these bubbles to catch the tiny prey that land harmlessly atop. Ribbitting and belching in their own right, satisfied and foul, peacefully resigning themselves to a full stomach slumber. Somehow sleeping through the ever-present smell of the swamp, the near-putrid and overpowering stench of moisture rotting through age-old bark and soil. The passing cold wind, harmless to the humidity and inhabitants, only buffets the trees and leaves that live therein. A few leaves, golden and crispy, not wishing to fall but powerless to stop, drift slowly downwards. They take their time to reach the bottom: a circuitous route like babies rocked in loving arms. Most leaves encounter the unfortunate fate of joining their brethren on the dark brown soil, a fate wholly imagined already: a retirement awaiting the rain and snow to smother and asphyxiate. Whereas some lucky few are granted the fun and fervour of landing atop the popping waters of the swamp. In the moments when the wind is high and angry, the frogs are asleep, and their flies are flitting, the bubbles filled with demonic distaste are the only creatures to persist. They remain and exist only for the drifting leaves that float along and rigorously brush up against the mucusy bubbles, causing the yell’s energy to be released and transformed into comparatively large eddies upon the surface of the water that seems to rage forever.
A mighty, gushing whirlpool of water that does indeed seem to rage with an unyielding ferocity. Dark, angry gray skies add yet more rain to the mixture with relentless winds that send clouds on a path far from the horizon. A once calm and serene ocean, seemingly endless, travelled often and without a hiccup, turns vicious through a twisting and churning storm. The crew upon the generations-old and experienced vessel painted with the blue emblazoned words: Rosa-lee, are thrown to and fro. They stumble from starboard to port, bleeding from rope burns, grinding and gritting their teeth just trying to hold her and themselves upright. Every deckhand not knocked out from tumbling barrels or thrown overboard into the swirling mass in the center is afoot and tugging for their lives. The captain stands tall, in front of the wheel, barking orders and directions. All of which almost entirely drowned out by whipping winds, thunderous booms and imposing currents of the maelstrom to the right of her cracking banisters. They begin to circle the whirlpool quicker and quicker, forcing the vessel to tilt even more aggressively to one side. The force sends the unlucky few holding on to now detached ropes to lose their footing and be welcomed into the hungry maw of the maelstrom. The would-be sounds of splashes and yelling go largely unheard by the sounds of swirling, but it is felt by all. The rampant adrenaline neglects vibrations through the heart and soul, as the crew looks up and sees the masts that held their sails cracked and splintered like frail bones in an early morning stretch. Just behind the wooden masts is their captain's rain-battered and slick face, closing his eyes in defeat and acceptance of their fate. He raises his arms and grips the railing, bloody and white-knuckled. He feels the unmistakable weight of gravity pulling him and his beloved ship into the awaiting mouth. The world shrinks and expands rapidly around him, but all encased in inky blackness, no longer feeling nor conscious of his surroundings. A sense of unconsciousness floods his mind, as if a dream.
The world suddenly stops expanding and contracting in a confusing void and explodes into a vibrant and beautiful vista. A long, everlasting flat plane of green grass and pretty, colourful flowers that dot the tranquil landscape. Lilacs and daisies of every scent imaginable outline meandering trails that lead nowhere and everywhere all at once. Birds sing beautifully with choir-like voices as the trails are followed, and the trees that were once minuscule on the horizon are now as large as skyscrapers. In several blinks of an eye, a new one sprouts and grows into inexplicable existence. Most are made from wood's expected colour and hardness, but others are all metal with oil-stained rivets adorning the sides. Some exist with an all-stone makeup, and a few are sculpted with clay. All with apparent and very defined purposes. Some when looked into, feature diverse micro-biomes or one in particular with snowmen lying on a beach. Another one filled with the chittering of thousands of multi-coloured ants playing and enjoying life inside an appropriately sized amusement park. Giant slides and circular swing sets whip them around in a circle. Yet another tree shoots up, and with it comes, well, that one is just an owl nest, but the one next to it hides within it a human existence lived in all but the span of ten seconds. It boiled down entirely to the senses of love and adoration in every relationship held through the eyes of the onlooker. Every moment of hugging and holding hands all the way down to every pet that ever wagged its tail. All are witnessed from the eyes of other humans on a park bench or just passing by, watching the manifestation of love being given or received and how it makes them feel. It’s a beautiful feeling and a very special tree. But just beyond this tree is an increasingly inviting meadow with gentle sunrays illuminating a warm patch of soft grass to lay one’s head. It’s on a very slight hill that seems to waver with the wind as if from mother nature’s breath herself. In this meadow, nothing is heard. No monstrous yelling, no burping of frogs, the popping of swampy bubbles and the swirling of a maelstrom. It is simply the sound of silence lulling everything around the meadow to sleep.
Until the hill begins to lift slowly and lovingly. Very slowly, millimetres per day but with miles of love. It’s a gentle caress and a warm embrace. And there’s a new sound, a few, actually. At first, a slight thrumming of a toned-down acoustic guitar hits only the deep notes, constant but soothing. Weeks later, when millimetres flip over to a centimetre, the soft green hill develops a water current down its four sides, flowing love and rhythm through the delicate grasses and flowers. Another instrument joins the choir, this time single notes played from an old piano. A beautiful, crisp sound. The currents now become steadier, leading towards the inflorescence of lilacs and daisies at the bottom of the hill, helping them cluster and grow more vibrant. A third instrument is heard only when the world is silent and relaxed; it's a steady and mnemonic beat from a bass. Only ever beaten out by the last and most noticeable instrument to join the band atop this growing meadow. It’s the only instrument that doesn’t care to follow the rhythm; it plays entirely by their own melody and makes their own music. The sound is of a kick drum playing vibrantly and as if nobody's watching. With zero rhyme or reason, keeping everybody atop this meadow awake and constantly disturbing the serenity, but quick to realize it is the cause of such joy and happiness that it almost seems to play louder and louder the more the audience falls in love with the sound.
