They’re Trying Something New
Queer body horror - 8-10 minute read
Welcome to The Inciting Incident. Every month I share a new short horror story. The week after, I write a post-mortem post about the story talking about the techniques used and ideas behind the narrative. Alongside that, I post about the craft of writing, and more.
Let’s begin the story…
They’re Trying Something New
I nudge the curtain open and a shaft of morning light lands on our television, angled in the room's corner. Something green droops over the top, like wilted spinach. Its dark sheen worries me. I sniff it and smell ocean salt. It shines in the light, slippery and cold. I jerk my hand away.
“There is seaweed on top of the television.”
My husband, in the kitchen, does not reply.
“Why is there seaweed on top of the television?” I pull at it, but it doesn’t come free. It is anchored in a crack in the plastic, a slim black seam that runs along the length of the television’s top. I line my eye up with the seam. There may be water there, but my finger comes away dry when I wipe it.
He stands in the doorway, toast in hand, watching me, somehow looking like a model even this early in the morning. His square jaw chews, his nostrils flare as he breathes through his nose. The shirt he’s wearing is tailored at the waist, snug around his lean body. His eyes are on me, bent over and peering around the back of the television. They run along my legs and butt. I wasn’t trying to be sexy, leant awkwardly over the screen, but a pleasant blush warms my cheeks from the attention. He swallows: “Maybe they’re trying something new.”
“Seaweed shouldn’t be growing there. That’s not normal.”
“Does it still work?”
I poke the standby button. A morning chat show fills the screen. The blonde presenter speaks to the camera with deadly sincerity: “Firstly, are you okay?” she says. I poke it off again.
“I’ve got to get to work.” He bends down to kiss me and I meet him on tip-toes. He smells of mint shaving foam.
—
I’m working from home. My computer opens on the same spreadsheet as yesterday. Work notifications are numbered in a little red dot, the number higher than when I logged off last night. Colleagues have scheduled their messages to send during the night to appear dedicated.
The spreadsheet says the cost of last year’s office supplies do not add up to the number they should. It does not hold my attention.
An email to my personal account, from a sex toy website we’ve used in the past, does not aid my concentration. I imagine our bodies, taut skin pushed together, lube and condoms, the taste of sweat, and hard toys that slide and tremble and make us gasp, eyes closed, tongues reaching into each other’s mouths.
Our flat smells odd.
In the living room, there is more seaweed. It is upright along the top of the television, swaying like it is held by an ocean current. Something pink around the edge of the screen catches my eye, the colour and shape unfamiliar. I touch it. It’s hard. My finger aches when I pull it away, and I see tiny specks of blood forming there.
When I was a child, I went to the library every weekend, reading old-fashioned boys’ adventure books. There was one about an ocean storm and a diver smashed against rocks by the waves, his body cut to shreds—but they weren’t rocks. It was coral. Before then, I had never imagined coral to be equally beautiful and dangerous.
Coral is growing behind our television, creeping around the edges.
I send a photograph and a message: “Is this normal?”
He replies with a shrug emoji.
Am I overreacting? I didn’t know coral could be sharp, and I do not know about television seaweed. Perhaps it is another of the mysteries that should be explained in the handbook of adulthood that I dearly wish existed. Googling it brings up no results. Is this something so common that no one talks about it? Should I feel normal, proud, or ashamed?
—
We binge four episodes of a documentary about witch trials, eating dinner on the sofa.
Why isn’t he worried about the seaweed?
I am getting used to the smell. Perhaps I even like it.
—
My pillow is hot and damp. In the darkness, I think I hear waves, but it could be my heartbeat. My phone screen says ‘2:13am’ and my husband isn’t beside me. His pillow is cold.
It is not my heartbeat. It is rhythmic, wet crunching.
I turn on the hallway light, and it spills into the living room. My husband squats beside the television, his feet wide, facing away from me, his spine and the muscles of his back accentuated by his arms tucked together in front of him. His head is down, but he raises it as I enter. When he turns to me, seaweed dangles from his mouth. He continues to chew. Shlup, chlump, shlump. He swallows and grabs another handful of the seaweed, ramming it into his face, packing it in with an open palm. Still chewing, he pulls more free and offers me a handful.
There is a forest of seaweed above the television, so thick it obscures the wall behind. The tallest fronds tickle the ceiling. They stir with an obscure grace. Small, streamlined shapes flit and sparkle among them.
I decline the handful and watch him for a while. He is not embarrassed. His hunger does not abate.
—
“Do you think this is normal?” I bend close to examine the coral stretching across the walls of our room. Tiny dots of pink and purple and blue cover its intricate surface. Sheets of pastel rocks with odd hollows and bulges have spread in the night. I cannot get a clear view of the things moving among the dense seaweed, they move too fast, and I don’t want to try to catch one.
“I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.” He isn’t eating toast this morning. I assume he’s still full from his feast. He was up before I woke, fully dressed, shirt tucked in. “Have a good day.”
—
We entwine on the sofa, limbs draped across each other, watching the last episodes of the witch trial show. It’s a little harder to see tonight because the coral encroaches on the edge of the screen. I run my hands over his chest. His ribs stand out, high ridges and low valleys.
“Are you losing weight?”
“I’ve been walking a longer route from the station to the office,” he says.
I surreptitiously check his hips, trying to feel if they have become more pronounced, but can’t tell with the way we’re sitting.
—
Chlup, shlup, shlump. From the bedroom, I hear him eating again. He makes small appreciative sounds, like when he’s eating a good meal or I kiss his nipples.
Rising, careful to not make any noise, I go to watch.
Before going to bed, I left the curtains open because I didn’t want to teeter leaning over the coral while pulling them shut.
Moonlight spreads over his body, smoothing the contours of his pale skin. His shoulder muscles slide as he reaches to take more seaweed. It hangs upwards from his fist, defying gravity, trailing against the ceiling and pulling down in small increments as he chews.
There is something different about his form. The wells of darkness beneath his shoulder blades are too deep, hollows mark the spaces between his ribs.
Inching towards him, I reach my hand out to feel their depth. My fingers enter the darkness. There is warm space where there should be skin. My pulse quickens. Pulling my fingers away, they brush the edge of the new cavity of his ribs, and he squirms, making a sound of pleasure. My fingertips hover just beyond contact.
He continues to chew, but slower now, as if he anticipates my touch. I extend my hand again, stroking his skin where I can see it is unchanged, then sliding my fingertips around the new contours of his body. Soft, warm crevices welcome my touch. He moans a gentle agreement to the exploration. The sound vibrates inside him, around my fingers.
His ribs are pliable, bending and stretching to accommodate my hand. I push deeper, slowly, not wanting to hurt him, but burning to know his new capacity. My full arm slides inside him. I must be extending through the front of his body, but it does not emerge on the other side. There is a private world in there. The warm skin embraces me, smooth and soft. My shoulder stops me from reaching any deeper. I withdraw. He sighs.
The chewing ceased while I was inside him. I gently raise him to stand, guiding him up with hands around his ribs, turning him with delicate touches on his shoulders. He accedes to my guidance. His eyes have grown a little larger. Black pupils extend to the edges of his irises.
In the centre of his chest, the ribs no longer meet in a sternum. A long vertical hole extends from his neck to his navel. I caress it with my fingers and his knees quiver. I guide him down to kneel before me. He blinks slowly, nodding wide-eyed consent to explore his newly porous form.
The seaweed shivers behind him as I stroke my hands along the opening in his chest. Easing it wider, I step very gently inside. It encloses me fully, like warm silk against every inch of my skin. I hear an ocean inside him.
[end]
Coming soon on The Inciting Incident…
Did you enjoy that? I hope so - it’s definitely one of the weirder stories I’ve written!
Next week I’ll dig into the writing techniques used in this story, focusing on character, atmosphere, and the build towards the climax. If you’re a writer or curious reader, I hope you’ll find it inspiring.
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Travel safely on the icy paths of December (unless you’re south of the equator, in which case don’t forget your sunblock!).
Until next time, be kind to yourself and others.
Mata <3