The cult section of the literary world

Flash Fiction Friday: The Eater

by The Swede

Hank was eight years old when it first happened. He was at the schoolyard playing with his friends on the monkey bars when he felt violent rumbling in his stomach. He dropped to the ground and held his guts, shocked to feel movement inside. He lifted his shirt and his abdomen magically opened up, revealing a large gaping mouth filled with tiny razor sharp teeth.

A long gray tongue suddenly whipped out like a bullwhip, wrapping around Jimmy Thomson’s wrist ten feet away, yanking him backwards through the air and into Hank. There was a loud crunching sound and Jimmy fell to the ground screaming, arm neatly severed mid-forearm. Hank looked down at his stomach. There was blood everywhere but the mouth had sealed up without leaving a trace. Inside he could still feel it chewing on the bones.

Jimmy lost consciousness before the paramedics could arrive and died. No one saw what had happened, and Hank didn’t tell anyone. He’d never liked Jimmy, and the other kids would just think he was crazy or strange if he talked about it. No point.

Plus, tomorrow was Bean Burrito Day at school and he wasn’t going to risk missing that. He loved Bean Burritos.

He and the other children were interviewed but the police were at a loss. There were no weapons at the scene and they never found the missing appendage.

It sort of hurt to take a shit that night, but otherwise Hank felt fine and didn’t think about it much for several years.

It happened again when he was thirteen. This time he was at home eating pecan ice cream on the couch watching “Celebrity Plastic Surgery”. His mom was in the kitchen washing dishes. No one was in the room except for Bitsy, the Pomeranian. Bitsy bounced over to the couch, begging shamelessly like a homeless person or someone from India, pawing at his wrist, about to start yapping.

“God damn dog,” he thought…and then Pow! His shirt flew up and the gray tongue snaked around Bitsy’s neck, yanking her inside of Hank before snapping shut. Hank laughed, feeling the rows of internal teeth happily grinding Bitsy into bloody mulch.

“What’s so funny in there?” his mom yelled from the kitchen. She came into the room when he didn’t answer. “Where’s Bitsy?” she asked. Hank just laughed again.

“You’re a funny one sometimes, Hank,” she said smiling. He agreed while both of him finished eating.

That night it didn’t even hurt to shit. “Not bad,” Hank thought. He’d always hated Bitsy and he really liked his new friend ‘The Eater.’ That was what he called it. At night when he was alone he would whisper to it, but it couldn’t speak back to him, and was only good for eating things.

A few more years passed without incident, until one night when Hank was sixteen. He was at a party, learning to drink, but wasn’t very good at it so far. His friends had bought a case of Moose Dung Ale and he was flying after three, vomiting in the bushes after four. It really did taste like liquid Moose Dung.

He was a mess, so nothing was more surprising than when Susie McCullock plopped down next to him on the couch and put her hand down his pants. Even though he was drunk, his dick snapped to attention.

“Mmm,” she drooled, down her chin and onto his favorite shirt. “Let’s go out to my Mom’s car.” Yes.

The back seats of her Volvo were folded down as if she’d planned the whole thing. She tore at his belt while Hank groped at her panties, nearly passing out from the exertion. She had to guide him in, and suddenly he felt the glorious warm wetness he’d only dreamed about until then. There was some resistance at first and then he pushed in all the way to where his third knuckle would have been if his penis had been a finger. Yes.

No! Suddenly his middle opened up and the tongue wrapped all the way around Susie’s waist, drawing her against him as the teeth tore into her belly. Hank covered her mouth before she could scream and tried to pull away, but the tongue was impossibly strong. It chewed through her almost to the spine before suddenly closing and leaving him awash in blood.

“God Damn It!” he thought. It took everything he had to keep thrusting and finish before sneaking back home through the alleyways. His parents were asleep when he got home. He took a shower in the guest bedroom and threw his clothes in the incinerator. The police yanked him out of class the next day. They couldn’t prove anything besides he’d fucked her…and he’d already told everyone in class he’d done that anyways. “Must have been a serial killer,” he said.

The next night he had a dream. Susie was there, but not dead Susie. Susie just like at the party, and she was naked. They were fucking, but something was wrong. Hank woke up and felt something moving under the covers. He clicked on the light and peeled back the quilt. The Eater’s tongue was wrapped around his penis, slowly sliding around it like a delicious python, hot breath blowing through its little yellowed teeth.

“Oh my God,” he thought, gasping as the come exploded out of him. The tongue licked up every bit and Hank shuddered as it slowly lapped up the sides of his deflating shaft and balls. He lied down enjoying it until The Eater finished.

He liked it, but then it started happening every night, sometimes two or three times. Finally it dawned on him. He’d never fuck again without killing someone. This was going to be it, forever.

He decided to coat his penis in poison. He wondered if they made Strawberry flavored poison.


The Swede currently resides in Portland, Oregon. His written works have appeared in such notably defunct publications as Stool Magazine, Culture Bunker, and on bathroom walls across the Pacific Northwest. Apart from writing, he creates bad art and plays guitar and bass in two local bands (The Food and Pitchfork Motorway). He is currently working on a novella and collection of short stories entitled “Mr. Alison and Other Tales.”

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