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