Prompt Day #68: Describe the encounters of an earthworm or other insect as it writhes its way through a recently buried carcass
Journey to the Center of You
Come with me, I’ll show you the other side. Life after death. What happens after your mournful family goes home to eat and visit and talk about you as you were before this. What happens when the flowers that once stood so tall and lush, now fall wilted and brown into the upturned dirt that your body has displaced. We will go down six feet or more and I’ll show you life; a world that now exists because of you.
The best place to start is the belly. A sweet custard awaits us and like a fine crème brule we must break through the outer skin. It is tasty; salty and tough, we chew through. Humans do not know of the bliss of wallowing about in your food. Feel it, cool and slick, bodies of others like yourself enjoying the feast. It is almost a sexual experience; a Thanksgiving orgy. The belly is a myriad of flavors and textures. A true buffet. The intestines break down quickly as the cultures inside eat their way through. The liver like a blood sausage. Let us wriggle through the diaphragm, it is much too tough now, let time and the small ones do their work, we can come back to it later. The same for the heart; human’s hearts are over used, many are so thick and scarred it is the last thing we eat if we eat it at all, often it is bitter.
The lungs are cream puffs. Thin pastry with slimy mousse, sometimes bloody, sometimes a fine foam, but always light and delightful. Once we’ve wormed our way inside, we eat through the maze of tunnels, ah, my friends do not gorge, there is much, much more to experience. Crawl along this dark moist tunnel, yes, the walls are ragged and stringy. Sometimes, in an effort to keep another human alive, they do horrible things like shove rigid plastic tubes into this space, injuring the delicate tissue. But it simply makes for a lovely scene for us, a tunnel of love perhaps, as we pull ourselves along into the mouth. The spongy floor is a nice place to rest, the white picket fence—we’re lucky this one has one, they don’t always, you know—will keep intruders away for a time. Rest, my friend. Tomorrow we journey onward and upward.
Did you sleep well? Good, have a taste of a taste bud before we travel on. We go back to our tunnel and travel on. Here are hairs to brush us clean of yesterday’s meal before we break through the roof and into the softest, smoothest grey pudding. In stark contrast to the heart, this place is still yielding and pliable. The sweetest dreams have seasoned it, savory secrets deep in its core like a surprise filling. A tapioca of ideas and plans, memories and nightmares. Here is a gourmet feast and where our journey ends. Fill yourself, no more talking, no time. The sweetest part goes bad the fastest, we haven’t much time. It is already losing its flavor.
Here is where I leave you. Don’t worry, there will be others to come break brain with you. But like this life, nothing lasts forever. When it is time, move on. There will be another, there always is.