The Ghosts of Amontillado Fumes

Tunnels are made of Poe things that go thump-thump… through the red in your bones, thump-thump… until they squeeze the tell-tale frenzy bruising the inside of your chest.

When I was swallowed by my first tunnel, I screamed. My face smacked the deck with a crunch that leaked through my ears. The pain stunk of rot and the ghosts of Amontillado fumes.

Something laughed, and shouted, “I advise you—”

“No,” I said, eyes open, knowing an unsolicited advice is as needed as an enema is erotic.

I was frightened, but I would face the dark with my Self unmolested.

 

photo by Dawn M. Miller
via

 

– for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. To read all the yummy tales that emerged out of this tunnel, follow this link.