Slishra-Ew

My toes squish along the path. I chant. I sing. I fling bird hearts and lamprey livers. Scatter bits of pig intestine, salamander bladders, an ape spleen. Then out I leap into the jungle-humid glade, where a gathering of lethargic, grub-shaped gods sweat beneath a continuous summer sun. And of these, it is the shadow of Slishra-Ew—God of Troubled and Ailing Viscera—I so gleefully enter.

Falling to my knees, I retrieve a dagger and cut out my own kidney. Ow, shit, that hurt. I present the organ in my proffered palms. “O unsightly one—please accept this offering as gratitude for all the disposable poetry you’ve inspired in me; for the success I’ve had in ephemeral, lowbrow publications. Through fevered dreams, a nervous stomach, and other chronic ills, you, sir, have smeared your poetic influence across my shivering mind!”

“Hmph mlughh.”

“How did I find you? Well, first I altered my reality by self food poisoning with rotten meat and questionable mushrooms. Next I vomit-grunted a short prayer, blacked out, and woke to find myself on the path to your hidden realm. From there I followed the stink of secretion and disease through all manner of environs, scattering offerings along the way. In time I came to the edge of your miasmal domain. Scanning through heat waves and sweat, my eyes soon landed upon a most awesome bulk. And that bulk, I knew, was you!

“And now a request, o athlete of kidney stone, stomach cramp, failing organ: that you kindly offer me passage upon the palms of your skinless hand-flaps. That I may be dropped into your mouth of flies and swallowed into your holy viscera. That there I may draw creative nourishment from your labyrinthine gutscape: drink of its microbe wine, bathe in its myriad secretions, dance to the lush music of its eternal digestion! For as a writer who seeks to undermine literary poetry with his own mediocre art—thus helping to flush it from its elite status—is there no better destination than the tumorous temple of your body?”

“Blughh.”

“Oh, concern yourself not, almighty gutheap—I shan’t over-welcome my stay. This I promise! For I shall willfully pass through your rumbling bowels at such time as you see fit to drop me beneath you anew.

“Know that I am your biggest disciple, your most ardent champion; that I’ve spent years furthering your status as a muse-god. Untold thousands have already taken wing in your name. And thanks to current technologies, these dilettantes now fling their garbage across the world. Never before has flaccid poetry been elevated to such heights!

“Master, you are too grand for this place. Let us depart at once from these puny gods of body hair, fat necks, third nipples. Let us install ourselves among the literary gods. There we will constipate their influence, kick them off their pretentious thrones, and reclaim poetry for the common man. What do you say?”

“Mlawlk, uh-bluh.” [belches excitedly]

“Ha-ha-ha! All hail mighty Slishra-Ew!”

First published as flash fiction in Weird Fiction Quarterly in 2023. It is exactly 500 words per the guidelines of the publication.