“What?” He screamed up at them, but to no reply. Just an endless sea of faces to mirror the endless swell of waves. No emotion, no joy, no malicious satisfaction, just a look of morbid curiosity on each and every face.
Suddenly, most of them turned to look toward McConnell. Corbett tried to clear his vision, but could only see the man’s cage careening back and forth against the ship. The night grew dark again, but the moon still barely shone through the haze in its half of the sky.
Then McConnell screamed. A long and languishing scream, which pierced the raging storm so completely that it sent shivers running down Corbett’s spine. Corbett gripped the bars tightly, trying as hard as he could to get a better view of McConnell.
The man still screamed, at the very top of his lungs, and looked down toward the now open floor plate of his cage. Something was there, what was it? A dark shape, a menacing figure rose from the raging gray water—reaching for McConnell’s cage.
“McConnell!” Corbett screamed, but the man paid him no mind. Instead, he kicked furiously at the thing that reached through the bottom of his cage with a thick scaly arm.
“For Chrissakes, McConnell!” Corbett wailed, his face wedged tightly between two bars, and his arms straining against the cold wet iron, but it was no use.
The thing’s head cleared the water then, all gleaming white teeth and beady yellow eyes. One clawed hand gripped firmly around McConnell’s right ankle and pulled him out of the cage with a thick and muscular arm. McConnell tried to kick at it, but another hand rose through the waves to grab the man’s left ankle.
Corbett watched in horror as his crewmate grabbed a hold of the bars of his cage, screaming as razor sharp teeth chewed off first his right foot, then his left. The thing sunk its yellow claws into McConnell’s right thigh, heaved down, and half of the man’s left leg disappeared into the gaping maw.
McConnell’s left hand let go of the bars as he struggled desperately to remain in a cage he spent the last hour trying to escape. The man held fast to the bars for as long as he could while the dark scaly thing ate its way up to his waist. Then McConnell suddenly looked toward Corbett’s cage, their eyes met, the most horrifying and helpless grimace on his former shipmate’s face. The two men locked stares for that barest of moments, an acknowledgement of lost hope passing between them in that instant, and then McConnell was simply gone.
Corbett noticed that he held his breath and sucked in a huge gulp of rain-laced air. His heart seemed about to burst forth from within his chest. “What in the name of God Almighty...” he murmured and tried once again to loosen his bars.
Snick of something sharp grated across the bottom of his cage. The sea swelled up and slammed him one more time against the side of the ship, but the sound was there again almost immediately.
Looking up, all of those faces peered straight down upon him. “Go to Hell!” He shouted at them as the grating noise grew louder, and the crank beneath his cage began to turn.
“Go to hell…all of you!” He screamed in fear, rage, and terror once more as the partition in the floor of his cage slid aside.
Corbett looked down through the gaping hole in the bottom of his cage and saw not the roiling ocean, but dozens of large teeth gleaming dully in the bare moonlight, the thing’s yellow eyes so full of hunger.
He felt sharp claws grab on to his ankle.
And Corbett screamed.
JONAH INSIDE THE WHALE: A MEDITATION
Jason Sechrest
Well, isn’t this a fine how do you do? I’ve heard of being stuck with a whale of a problem, but this is ridiculous. For Gods’ sake, could you not have just killed me?
…
…
Silence? No booming voice from the heavens above, or the bowels just below me? Well, that’s fine. It was a rhetorical question anyway. You needn’t bother yourself with response. Apparently, the answer is no. No, death would simply not have sufficed. It would not do to be merely taken in by some dastardly sea creature, to be mauled by gnashing teeth, and to have my bloody remains floating in the fearful fathoms of some ocean terrain. No, certainly not. Instead, I seem to have been swallowed whole. As if I were a valium, or some runaway tooth.
Runaway, now there’s a word. One I’d dare not say, and yet here I’ve said it. Oh, I’ve said it, and what of it? Alright, so I admit it. Running away is what got me into this glorious mess to begin with. I was trying to escape my destiny. But isn’t that one’s right? Oughtn’t it be up to the individual to choose when they rise to their own greatness? I’ll decide when I’m damned well good and ready to live my life in its most fulfilled state of being, and not a moment before. It is one’s right to live a life of blissful mediocrity! Well, that’s my story at least and I’m sticking to it. Like an adhesive. What’s that old childhood nursery rhyme? “I am rubber! This whale is glue. What bounces off me is destiny.”
Anyway, where were we? Ah yes. Running away. The moral of my story as passed down throughout the generations will undoubtedly be that this way lies ruin. Only, it hasn’t been my ruin. That’s just the point, isn’t it? I’m neither here, nor there. I’m in what must be God’s most odious of purgatories—the stomach.
Well, it’s not all that terrible I suppose. Now at first, yes, the stench of rotting fish was enough to make my poor eyes sting, but truth be told I do think I’m getting used to it.
My goodness, there are a lot of fish in here. So many fish, so little time. My new friends! We’ll have a gay old time being slowly digested over the course of, oh who knows how many days?
Just how does one become digested anyway? Well, I suppose I’ll be an expert on the subject soon enough. Something about acid breaking down food into bits of mush. Yes, that’s it. That’s what we learned in school. The stomach has a capacity for turning solids into liquids. I’ll tell you one thing I didn’t expect from this whole scenario—not that I was expecting to be swallowed by a whale at all this afternoon. But I had most definitely not anticipated the heat in here. Who knew the stomach was such a hot ticket? My skin feels as though it’s been roasting on the beaches of Bermuda.
So dreadfully hot. More than hot. What is the word? Humid. A wet heat.
Sticky. Yes, that’s the word any poet laureate worth his salt would use to describe this most moist of atmospheric condition. Sticky.
Oh bother Jonah, what do you care how to describe it, or how Shakespeare would deem to describe the weather in a whale’s a stomach? You’ve got bigger fish to fry, Jonah. Like how are you going to get out of here? When will you stop running from your destiny? And why have you begun speaking to yourself in the third person? Yes, these are the questions you should be asking. The how, when and why of it all. Those are, in fact, the three rules of journalism I believe. I would have made a good journalist, I think. I just never had the right paper, nor the right pen. You know, it takes a special kind of desk too, I’m told, to really get those thoughts down and onto the printed page.
You’re digressing again, Jonah. Digress. Digress. Digress.
That’s why you’re here, Jonah. You have digressed.
You’re a digresser from way back. Your parents were digressing long before you knew how to talk. And their parents before them were Nobel Prize winners for achievement in art of digression. Always wandering from that beaten path, forever tethered to absolutely nothing. And here you find yourself stepping away from the plan, well is it any wonder? You needn’t Freud to tell you where the blame lies.
You know, I must say considering this accidental detour, I am much calmer here in this sticky stomach than I’ve any right to be. These fish, on the other hand? Not so much. In various states of distress are they. Some half-rotting while others flippity-flopping atop the water. Several dozen remain alive and well, perfectly capable of swimming past my ankles. At least, I assume those are fish. After all, what else could they be? An eel, I suppose. An ocean snake of some kind? What other aquatic creatures squirm their way through these underwater cities, only to be swallowed
like good old yours truly? Fish. Yes, it must be fish.
I cannot see them here in the dark, but I certainly can smell them. Truth be told, I think it’s the dark in here that most disturbs me. I swear I could get used to the stench. Oh, I know you must think me crazy! Jonah, how can you stand the smell of rotting fish? But you know, I’ll be really honest with you. I think there’s something almost sweet about the smell after a while.
In fact, I could make a go of this place, really. I could live here. Humbly and quietly. It’s not the most optimal of living conditions, but perhaps one day Moby Dick here will swallow a candle. Maybe some throw pillows. I believe in miracles, you know. I’ll just sit here and meditate, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll sit here and believe that good things will come to me, and so they shall.
The power of positive thought, that’s what I always say! You know, sometimes a single positive thought is all it takes to turn God’s back around.
Yes, meditation. That’s the ticket. I could really get into a good state of mind if only it weren’t so hot in here. You see, I’m constantly having to wipe the sweat from my brow and damned if the sweat isn’t getting thicker with each swipe. I’m telling you, these are more than mere beads of sweat, these are big drops, a faucet really of—
Wait. Oh, no. Perhaps this isn’t really sweat at all. Is this…? Oh, dear God, yes I think it is. It’s happening on my arms too. And my hands. I’m—melting? Oh my goodness, yes. I’m sure of it now. On my hands. Where once there was skin, now there is but a thickness. A dense puddle. Liquid flesh, I suppose. As though you had taken a human being and put him through a blender. That’s what’s happening to me, I tell you! Oh God, that is what’s happening. I am being liquefied. Only I’m not in a blender. I’m in the stomach of a whale. The stomach acid eating away at my flesh in a way that would be all but painful if I could feel anything but the numbness of my extremities.
Well now, that’s a bonus I suppose. It’s a plus, I must admit. If there was a pros and cons list to be made for being swallowed by a whale, the fact that it’s nearly painless is one for the pros column.
What now? What’s to happen next? What’s to become of you, old Jonah? What happens once Moby’s stomach acid eats its way through the rest of you?
Organs to juice? Mind to mush? This is what becomes of us.
Oh, dear Lord, please do not let me go this way. I promise I will be a good boy and dutifully carry out your will. Whatever is the will of God, that shall be my destiny. Let me be written in the book of life and let it be said that Jonah will rise to that greatness, that he has learned his lesson dear God, and that he will never deter from the path again. Heredity digression be damned, I tell you, the cycle stops here.
There. I’ve made a commitment and I’m going to stick to it. Much like my hands have become stuck to each other. You see, I clasped them together in prayer position, but what with the heat…the stickiness and the acidity of it all…it would seem my hands have become glued together.
Oh, dear God, I do believe I am being digested. Please. If there is any chance for me, any opening—
Just a minute, speaking of opening. What’s this? A light at the end of the tunnel? No, literally I do see a light at the end of the dark tunnel above me. Of course, that could just be me dying, but I do believe Moby Dick has opened his mouth to the skies. And from the intense rocking of this belly beneath me, I would bet that myself and about three dozen fishies are soon to be spit out!
Meditation, see. That’s where it’s at. Positive thinking, and positive living. I’m telling you, it works every time.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
RICHARD CHIZMAR is the New York Times bestselling author of Gwendy’s Button Box (with Stephen King) and the founder/publisher of Cemetery Dance magazine and the Cemetery Dance Publications book imprint. He has edited more than 30 anthologies and his fiction has appeared in dozens of publications, including Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine and multiple editions of The Year’s 25 Finest Crime and Mystery Stories. Chizmar's third short story collection, A Long December, was recently published in trade paperback by Gauntlet Press. Please visit the author’s website at: Richardchizmar.com
BILLY CHIZMAR his first short story was published in 2015 in the anthology, Dead Harvest. His essay, "The Role of God in Stephen King's Desperation" will appear in Reading Stephen King edited by Brian Freeman later this summer. Chizmar was recently named as a U.S. Lacrosse Academic All-American during his senior year at St. Paul's and will be attending and playing lacrosse at Colby College in Maine.
MARK PARKER is the author of numerous short works of fiction, including, Biology of Blood, Way of the Witch, Banshee’s Cry: A Highland Ghost Story, Lucky You, The Darkest Night of the Year, Last Minute Shopper, Killing Christmas, The Troll Diner, Born Bad, and Hell’s Half Acre, which is being adapted by Cemetery Dance Publications as a short graphic novel. As editor and publisher, Parker’s credits include Dead Harvest: A Collection of Dark Tales, Dark Hallows: 10 Halloween Haunts, Dark Hallows II: Tales from the Witching Hour, Fearful Fathoms: Collected Tales of Aquatic Terror (Vol. I – Seas & Oceans, Fearful Fathoms: Collected Tales of Aquatic Terror (Vol. II – Lakes & Other Bodies), and the acclaimed novella, Darkness Whispers, co-authored by Richard Chizmar (Gwendy’s Button Box, with Stephen King, and A Long December) and Brian James Freeman (The Painted Darkness, Blue November Storms, Black Fire, More Than Midnight, Weak and Wounded, Dreamlike States, and The Halloween Children, with Norman Prentiss). He is also the publisher of the forthcoming Detective Marlowe Gentry thriller novels, A Coin for Charon, The Dark Age, and October’s Children, by Dallas Mullican.
LAIRD BARRON spent his early years in Alaska, where he raced the Iditarod three times during the early 1990s and worked in the fishing and construction industries. He is the author of several books, including The Beautiful Thing That Awaits Us All, and Swift to Chase. His work has also appeared in many magazines and anthologies. Barron currently resides in the Rondout Valley writing stories about the evil that men do.
WILLIAM MEIKLE is a Scottish writer, now living in Canada, with over twenty novels published in the genre press and over 300 short story credits in thirteen countries. He has books available from a variety of publishers including Dark Regions Press, DarkFuse and Dark Renaissance, and his work has appeared in a number of professional anthologies and magazines. He lives in Newfoundland with whales, bald eagles and icebergs for company. When he's not writing he drinks beer, plays guitar, and dreams of fortune and glory.
CAMERON PIERCE is the author and editor of numerous books, most recently Taut Lines: Extraordinary True Fishing Stories (Little Brown UK) and Crawling Darkness w/ Adam Cesare (Severed Press). His work has appeared in Gray's Sporting Journal, Flyfishing & Tying Journal, Letters to Lovecraft, Cthulhu Fhtagn, and many other publications. He lives in Astoria, Oregon.
DALLAS MULLICANspent twenty years as the lead singer of a progressive metal band, and then turned his creative impulses toward writing. Raised on King, Barker, and McCammon, he moved on to Poe and Lovecraft, enamored with the macabre. During his time at the University of Alabama at Birmingham, where he received degrees in English and Philosophy, Dallas developed a love for the Existentialists, Shakespeare, Faulkner, and many more great authors and thinkers. Incorporating this wide array of influences, he entices the reader to fear the bump in the night, think about the nature of reality, and question the motives of their fellow humans. A pariah of the Deep South, Dallas doesn’t understand NASCAR, hates Southern rock and country music, and believes the great outdoors consists of walking to the mailbox and back. He remains a metalhead at heart, and can be easily recognized by his bald head and Iron Maiden t-shirt. He is the acclaimed author of the Detective Marlowe Gentry thrillers, including the soon-to-be published A Coin for Charon, The Dark Age, and October’s Children, from Scarlet Galleon Publications.
BRYAN CLARK is a lifelong horror fan and lover of monsters. He has previously published with Scarlet Galleon Publications, LLC in the Dead Harvest
anthology, and writes about horror and exploitation movies in various locations around the web, and can be heard discussing them every other week on Attack of the Killer Podcast. Bryan lives in Iowa where he helps his father put the ground to sleep every fall.
LORI R. LOPEZ dips her pen in poetry, prose, and art. Born in Wisconsin, she later lived in Florida and Spain as well as Southern California, where she currently resides. A vegan, mother, wearer of many hats, Lori is the author of peculiar works including Leery Lane, The Dark Mister Snark, The Strange Tail of Oddzilla, Poetic Reflections: The Queen of Hats, Odds and Ends: A Dark Collection, The Macabre Mind of Lori R. Lopez, An Ill Wind Blows, The Fairy Fly, and Chocolate-Covered Eyes. Her work has appeared on Hellnotes, Halloween Forevermore, and Servante of Darkness; in The Horror Zine, Weirdbook, and The Sirens Call, as well as a number of anthologies such as Dead Harvest, Journals of Horror: Found Fiction, and the H.W.A. Poetry Showcase Volumes II and III.
ANNIE NEUGEBAUER is a novelist, short story author, and poet. She has work appearing in over seventy publications, including magazines such as Apex, Black Static, and Fireside, as well as anthologies such as Bram Stoker Award finalist The Beauty of Death, #1 Amazon bestseller Killing It Softly, and Scarlet Galleon’s Dark Hallows II: Tales from the Witching Hour. Annie’s an active member of the Horror Writers Association and a columnist for Writer Unboxed and LitReactor. She lives in Texas with two crazy cute cats and a husband who’s exceptionally well-prepared for the zombie apocalypse. You can visit her at www.AnnieNeugebauer.com for blogs, poems, organizational tools for writers, and more.
W.D. GAGLIANI is the author of the horror-thrillers Wolf’s Trap (a finalist for the Bram Stoker Award in 2004), Wolf’s Gambit, Wolf’s Bluff, Wolf’s Edge, Wolf’s Cut, Wolf’s Blind, and Savage Nights, plus the novellas Wolf’s Deal and both the original “The Great Belzoni and the Gait of Anubis” and the upcoming Acheron Books version. He has published fiction and nonfiction in numerous anthologies and publications such as Robert Bloch’s Psychos, Fearful Fathoms, Undead Tales, More Monsters From Memphis, The Midnighters Club, Extremes 3: Terror On The High Seas, Extremes 4: Darkest Africa, and others, and early e-zines such as Wicked Karnival, Horrorfind, 1000Delights, Dark Muse, and The Grimoire. His fiction has garnered six Honorable Mentions in The Year’s Best Fantasy & Horror (one of which, the story “Starbird,” is also part of Amazon’s Story Front program). His book reviews and nonfiction articles have been included in The Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, Chizine, HorrorWorld, Cemetery Dance, CD Online, The Writer magazine, The Scream Factory, Science Fiction Chronicle, Flesh & Blood, BookPage, Hellnotes, and many others, plus the books Thrillers: The 100 Must Reads, They Bite, and On Writing Horror. He is a member of the Horror Writers Association (HWA), the International Thriller Writers (ITW), and the Authors Guild. Additionally, the creative team of W.D. Gagliani & David Benton has published fiction in anthologies such as THE X-FILES: Trust No One, SNAFU: An Anthology of Military Horror, SNAFU: Wolves at the Door, Dark Passions: Hot Blood 13, Zippered Flesh 2, Malpractice, Masters of Unreality, etc., online venues such as The Horror Zine, DeadLines and SplatterpunkZine, plus the Amazon Kindle Worlds Vampire Diaries tie-in “Voracious in Vegas.” Some of their collaborations are available in the collection, Mysteries & Mayhem. The author can be reached at: www.wdgagliani.com, www.facebook.com/wdgagliani, @WDGagliani
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