My stomach talks to me. I call him Stomache (pronounced like “moustache” except with a “stom” instead of a “moust”). He growls in the morning. When it’s time for work, he talks about more topical stuff, like the weather. He’s really boring in the morning. In the afternoon, we chat about stuff I ate and stuff he digested that day. By the evening, he reminisces about days gone by, when he could take on a whole plate of spicy curry and not even flinch. Stomache is a good guy, though he snores really loud, and I have to hit him from time to time. Could be worse. I’ve heard horror stories about people’s stomachs robbing them blind and leaving…


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Filed under Flash Fiction, Session XII

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