Stomach It

Cassio Malevon

Description

Gore meddled with a psychological twist: a simple way to describe the book you're holding. In a hidden village in Colombia, news of The Queen rapidly falling ill catches the sinister wonder of The Girl. She wants The Crown. What will fascinate you is the corners of this story-the sport by which she obtains it. There's a physical game for it, you see. It's disturbing, jarring, and raw. As the story nears its end, you'll beg the question as to who this brazen and mysteriously hellborn girl actually is. That is, what is the true purpose for someone who is capable of such miraculously brutish violence? This is a story of its own underpass.

Informations

• Publié par: Austin Macauley Publishers LLC
• Date de parution: 06 janvier 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781649794987
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

S tomach I t
C assio M alevon
A ustin M acauley P ublishers
2023-01-06
Stomach It About the Author Copyright Information © Acknowledgment Chapter One: Dark Veins Chapter Two: Shark Smile Chapter Three: Unhinged Chapter Four: Disordered Dive Chapter Five: The Boy Chapter Six: Do I Dare Describe It Chapter Seven: 13 August, 2026 Chapter Eight: The Sun Is Tired Chapter Nine: The Sound of Strain Chapter Ten: The Hill
About the Author
Cassio Malevon was born in Boston, Massachusetts in 1999. Her wonder of the creepy and hauntingly absurd led her to write a story of her own – Stomach It is the first book she’s written. Now a junior in college, she’s excited to write experimentally with the different aspects of horror throughout the rest of her career.
Copyright Information ©
Cassio Malevon 2023
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.
Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Ordering Information
Quantity sales: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.
Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data
Malevon, Cassio
Stomach It
ISBN 9781649794970 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781649794963 (Hardback)
ISBN 9781649794987 (ePub e-book)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2022919682
www.austinmacauley.com/us
First Published 2023
Austin Macauley Publishers LLC
40 Wall Street,33rd Floor, Suite 3302
New York, NY 10005
USA
[e-mail]
[phone]
Acknowledgment
Thank you to Austin Macauley Publishers for helping Stomach It reach publication.
Chapter One Dark Veins
Deaf heat stole any breathable air from the village that morning.
Bright and expansive was the sun that made the sands appear a deep orange. A pitch-black hut rolled out its tongue and The Girl stepped out. Her bare feet met the hot ground and her toes gathered a line of sand as she curled them, then extended them forcefully so the webbing between the flare was apparent. Dark veins bent the smooth landscape of her feet and were just visible beneath the long hair of her legs as the veins ran up them, closely resembling the interwoven surface of a shallow stream.
The hair strands were lit up with copper from the sun and were whisked and energized slightly from the pity of a breeze.
Her left foot abandoned its spot on the sand and made a swift move for the next one, just as her left arm slowly swung forward. I observed her backside as she walked past me to join the crowd of other villagers awaiting an announcement from an elder. The back of her head burned copper waves as the sun scanned her scalp. Each wave of light stretched the circumference of her head and slid down her strands until it dropped off at the end of the stale segments with each step. There existed three large knots located at the base of the back of her head where they derived only a small section of strands that survived the mess an inch from them. The knots illuminated a fiery auburn when the light punctured them, displaying something of atomic structure, where a nucleus of tightly intertwined strands became the ancestry of wiry hairs orbiting around it.
Cracked brown cloth hung on her ropy beige body where dying muscles and softening bones had a striking ambition to crack out of her thin flesh. The spine took a hook shape that banned her neck from resting tall atop her inwardly caved shoulders.
She implied powerlessness; someone who has already surrendered.
To meet The Girl face to face was for your eyes to meet the colored part of hers strained at the top line of her lashes, pulsating and drumming as the iris’ fight to stay anchored.
At the perimeter of the crowd is where she stood, looking up sideways due to her pathetic posture to get the best view of the one who stood tall on the mound. Beside the elder was his counterpart, shriveled up dryly in the large chair where a fantastic crown melted on her hair, fitting so perfectly.
A weak voice sounded from the elder man. His voice resembled much like a tree’s branches in winter; split, bent, uneven, and hurt. I had assumed that he spoke of an illness inhabiting the elder woman. She looked unfortunate.
Her appearance resembled that of someone who had been held in flames, rung by a belt of heat.
He stated a particular thing that had thoroughly activated the residents of the village. The crowd became animated with small conversations of intensity. The noise of the people, while not increasing in volume, became more layered as the news reached the outskirts of the audience.
Everyone was alive; there was movement , and then there was her.
Being usually unseen, almost scentless, she had become a lead feature. Her breathing was ruffled while her eyes were edged on the prismatic crown that perched on the cheerlessly simple woman underneath. From the corners of The Girl’s eyes materialized rust-red branches of veins that cracked wildly as they spread with such brutal carelessness you could almost hear it. They were stomping toward the dark iris like it was an energy source. A sliver of water bloomed from her lower lids while her eyes horned at the crown.
There was a feeling, some sort of emotion, that knit up her face with obscurity beyond human comprehension.
She zigzagged to her hut. She left before The King finished his speech.
He noticed.
The room was silent, and her entering had made no difference. Feet scuffed along with the thin layer of sand over unsmooth and toothed concrete. To the center was nothing but to the left was a bed. Hung from the short ceiling was a cream-colored sheet. Suddenly, dark and patchy hands ripped it from the line above.
The sound; if the wind was pigmented.
The sheet was flying, gorgeously caving and concaving, surrendering to the form of the air, until it calmed down atop parallel layers of bamboo interwoven by strips of the same material. Hands slowly slithered across the sheet. Incredible was the pace; creeping and unhurried.
Those procrastinatory things, detailed and designed for an unnerving sail across the milk color of the linen.
They reached the curvature of the bed and their movement abruptly canceled.
The color of the hands varied as your eyes rolled up to them. A patchwork of browns and brick reds coated the flesh while dark veins roared underneath. Dark soil rimmed the short yellow nails. Her reclined fingers draped on the edge. Multiple knuckles coasted down each finger that angled and bowed over the bed, unbelievably protracted in length. Always in a stage of spasm, they never settled.
During this odd pause, only her head approached the sheet. Her neck appeared to elongate while the rest of her body waited, blended, and cemented to the floor. The nose almost met the sheet but wouldn’t.
The iris’ were stinging at the fabric, rapping and ticking with incredible amounts of severity.
She rose. The ankle bones were larger than yours or mine, and her heels were imprinted with especially deep white cracks in her volcanic-hued skin. With her stately catatonic arms suspended by her side, a finger’s tip managed to decorate the ribbed floor with its touch as she rose farther. Her spine imitated bridges of bones decreasing in size as they traveled to her upper back; the arch of each bridge much taller and less rounded at the tip than yours or mine.
The King had delivered the last few words in his speech. His ending line paved a gravel tone and issued a slow speed; you had no choice but to listen. Although I could not understand them, the words made me cower as they stomped past my left ear and into the darkness of her hut; a specific complexion of darkness that would only be effectively described by the color of secrecy.