This choice: Keep going as her yawn draws in, until you slip over her tongue... • Go Back...Chapter #5To Granny's Gut We Go by: We Smile   Strong winds and slippery surfaces equal to a swift trip across the length of Anne’s tongue for her favorite grandson. Your tack-tall form tumbles around helplessly against the spongy dunes that contour your grandma’s dwindler of hard candies, buttering you up all the way through in a warm layer of her morning dew, swapping out any sweat you might have built up to this point with a thick lick from granny. Maybe you’re too dazed to take in things other than oh fuck oh shit I’m being eaten, grandma please stop, HELP! - but even through the blur of the moment you can hear a soft, low moan wisp out from below as your grandma’s yawn recedes.
Which is about the same time that your battered shape arrives at the edge of the world right over the precipice of Anne’s throat. Her long breath might have ended by now, but its lingering force is more than enough to send you screaming down the slope and into the hole without as much as a chance to claw her tongue for a brake. Not a second after the world goes dark as you’re swept past her tongue and it lurches back, causing the whole cave to shudder around you.
Gllp…
And just like that, her mouth shuts you off as you’re sent piping down the gullet of your grandma. Despite your minuscule size, the walls of supple muscle have little trouble in constricting your shape close to the mold. Though brief, your journey rappelling down your granny’s tight food tube is as grinding as it can get; with the highlight of the trip being the bassy lull of her system filling up over the squelch of your descent and later both being shadowed by the roar of her snoring revving back up.
Before the quivering flesh of her throat can smush you any further, your foot becomes caught up in some sort of squishy pocket at the bottom. Its slimy feel is a notch up on the scale from grandma’s mouth to her throat, and it doesn’t help that the opening soon circles your ankle as it squelches itself open for you. Nobody has to tell you where this opening leads to, the foul stench wafting up from the other side speaks volumes instead; aunt Jane’s sweet potato surprise sure packs a whole new wallop after stewing a second time overnight in a septuagenarian woman’s bowels. It’s almost strong enough to KO you three bells down for the count, although as you suspect what’s coming next, you’d probably find that the more appealing option since you’re about to get dragged into the ring with it.
Next to pour through the valve into grandma Anne’s stomach are your both knees, and you barely get a moment to fit the uneasy squeeze in your mind’s eye before the tight flesh donut slithers up to your waist. By now you feel like your legs are dangling over an open caldera, and for all intents and purposes that might just be the case; but now that the sphincter’s within reach, you think that you have just enough leverage to worm your arms down the tube and catch yourself on the opening; it won’t get you out soon but at least it will brake your descent into grandma Anne’s Ultimate Time-Out Corner for a while.
Tapping into that bottomless well of young energy that pretty much delivered your ass to Anne on a silver spoon (sans the spoon and any silver linings), you dig your fists on the surrounding flesh and clutch hard on it. And for the first time since you first began climbing the Mount-Anne, your grasp is fruitful as it successfully latches on the ridges of the sphincter. Despite the slick surface nearly slipping off your hand, you manage to secure a hold for your arms.
However, much to your horror, finding a spot to cling onto doesn’t actually do much to stop you from slipping through the opening. Your strength has little to no pull behind it to actually un-suck you out of the ring, let alone to freeze your location in Anne’s esophagus; as evidenced when the walls of her gullet send another ripple your way and your body squeezes through up to your shoulders. Sure, your grip remains fastened secure, but that only leaves you awkwardly wedged through the valve, like a pit-fell schmuck crawling out of an open manhole but in deadly reverse.
The next wave of peristaltic pressure pretty much seals your fate as your grandmother’s dream treat, plugging your remaining upper half down the chute as the fleshy ring slithers across your neck and all over your face – yuck! It’s bad enough that you can’t shield your lips from gathering a forward taste of bile, the sour, bitter, absolutely wretched flavor making you heave and recoil in disgust while your very soul burns itself to the core begging for a purge from this awful punishment.
Crushing as your life might be right now, there’s always something to remind you how it can always get worse, and Anne’s belly greets you right away to let you know how your luck is about to plummet from ‘Rotten’ to ‘Rotten and Helpless’. Not content with merely feeding you a spoonful of the foulest substance since that fish oil she made you soldier through as a kid, the next stop in your tour through grandma’s body is a bubbling, roaring pit full with glop that’s been soaking in that retching slime for just how long. If your hands weren’t locked in a snap against a meat wall they’d be busy plucking hairs from your head as it begins to lose its screws right now.
Finally, your body squirts out the other side of the narrow gate, and while you refuse to release your grasp on the sphincter just yet, one last swallow from your lovely sleeping granny is more than enough to whip the flesh into slipping your hands as it bounces free with a wet splurch!
You can’t help but wince as you sink and then bounce up from the swirling mass of sloppy crud. It’s littered with chunks, it’s sickeningly gooey, it’s uncannily warm, and it’s just goddamn everywhere. Much of this roiling sludge is barely digested; you’re no expert on kind old lady biology – although you’re well on your way to become one – but you’d think that much of this chyme that has been churning away since last night would already be a thin soup gently coursing through your grandma’s bowels by now. Instead, it’s almost as thick as the oatmeal that will be no doubt joining the party in an hour or so, with a layer of bubbling foam from her gastric juices that could be called ‘starved’ at best; even if you can’t see a thing, the low amount of bubbling bile washing upon you compared to the much thicker bog of gastro-gruel is a print clear enough to read in the dark.
That gives you some hope at least, if Anne is taking this long to digest last night’s supper, you should have more than enough time to think of a plan before you have to worry about keeping your tender bits out of the corrosive substance. You just had to watch out your step on the treacherous sludge filling up the marsh; one wrong step and you could find yourself buried under heaps of your aunt’s cooking, and then not even the slowest metabolism in the world will save you from becoming one more raisin in your grandma’s morning bowl of bran flakes.
Then again, much like you pondered back some miles out on the other side of this massive, caustic jail, anything that crossed the threshold into Anne’s lips had its fate very much foregone. Not only was your grandmother the sweetest lady you’ve ever met, but also the biggest black hole for sweets and pretty much any foodstuff that stoked her appetite. She has rarely if ever thrown up for as long as you remember, her iron gut infamous amongst your family for its ability to keep her lunch down even against the sneakiest expiration dates to slip part the cook in turn. It may take a while, sure, but pretty much anything that plunged down her throat could only follow the track through the one-way course. And right now, you’re embarked in the same fantastic voyage whose destiny holds only two stops for you: a long stay at the crowded bulk of her paunch for whatever nourishment her system can harvest from you; and as for whatever else remains…
You shudder, tempering your resolve against being buried in an ivory casket. Your only hope, you figure, is to try against all odds to upset her stomach somehow; which involves a lengthy crawl among the churning mass of gut-mud. And since it’s all too easy to trek blindly in a living swamp that’s eagerly waiting for you to trip over so it can bury you in sludge, it’ll only take you for-frigging-ever to reach any given corner of your gargantuan grandmother’s gigantic gut; but wait, there’s also the gentle slosh of her ailing glop-to-glut-rate rocking the thick of it at the expense of your balance! Because it wasn’t obvious enough that fate was stacking the whole hand in favor of you becoming not only the sweetest grandson to sit on your beloved grandma’s lap but also the one who fills up said lap as well.
All in all, it takes your tightest maneuvering and minute patience to traverse the chyme bog without getting stuck for good; and that’s just for moving in what you think it’s a straight line towards the nearest wall. Of course, that’s just your best guess and a whole pinch of blind faith, as without a light or a clue or some stable terrain to begin with you could very well be circling laps inside Anne’s stomach.
Minutes stretch and pass as you navigate the rocking sea of bile and chunks, growing increasingly sick the longer you have to breathe the fumes of the filling vat while also clearing your path of any mounds of slimy, soft-chewed debris that you come across. Time becomes a meaningless concept in short, with the only milestones worrying you being how long until grandma Anne woke up from her slumber, and how longer still until her system fired up its gears to wrap up with digestion.   indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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