The Submarine

IV

by KEZIA WRIGHT The sun was raging in the cloudless sky, with no breath of wind to atone for its cruel heat. The field in which the family reclined was burnt, the grass brown and rough. Summer had devoured its lush green former-self.

Great blue flies, shiny, loud and bulging hung about the food, landing their spindly legs on the honey-cured ham, tasting the moist, pink meat, they longed for its flesh.

Alongside the sweet, sticky ham lay a bowl of grey salad, wilted by the sun, drenched in warm oil. Cream buns topped with melting white frosting and sweet cherries, now became warped lumps of shining sugar and a pungent smell lingered about the egg mayonnaise. Small bugs found themselves trapped within the glistening jelly trifle and they squirmed and writhed to free their putrid bodies.

Around this delightful array of food, there sat a family, a son and his two parents. They were grotesque. The man, sprawled across the picnic Group work - Daisy McKeever, Kirsten Higgins, rug, breathed heavily and unevenly as sweat Michael Kennedy and Freddie de Montfort globules dripped from his pink, raw chest. This man didn't have a hair on his head and his scalp shined as the rancid cream bun did, that was clenched in his meaty fist.

The mother sat slouched beside her husband, consuming a thick ham sandwich, ketchup oozing from the sides. Her thin cotton, spotted dress clung to her body in the heat and her face sweltered beneath her mop of thick, black greasy hair.

The son, busy with his feast, sat contently on the far side of the rug. In one hand he held the remains of a jelly trifle, in the other a tepid bottle of Coca-Cola. The sun-cream that his mother had smeared upon his face now dripped into his eyes, stinging them and leaving salty taste of sweat in his mouth, surrounded with ketchup and meat juice.

I watched them for hours, I watched them. I watched them perspiring, I watched the gleaming food melt and surrender to the sun and I smelt the odour of sweet, creamy icing, of salty meats and of rotting eggs.

Yet it was neither the family nor the food that I was interested in. What I wanted was on the rug. It lay on crumpled, brown waxen paper, and like all other things was softened by the sun. A rich creamy odour lingered in the clammy afternoon air and it shined with a warm colour under the rays, like a beacon, untouched by the sweaty hands of the family. I was hungry. I hadn't eaten in days.

I had watched it, now it was time to claim my prize.

I started out, my heart racing, my eyes on this target. I ran faster now, my legs pacing softly but fast, very fast. The smell was becoming ever stronger, arousing my senses, leaving me longing.

I now ventured onto the picnic rug. I could hear the crunch and squash as the humans devoured onion crisps and custard tarts, their voices booming as they spoke, revealing the food, halfchurned in their colossal mouths.

I was almost there now, just a few paces away‌ "AAAAAaaaaaahhhhhhh!, the woman shrieked, a shrill, piercing yell that resounded in my head, deafening me. She bounced up, her dress peeling away from her moist skin as she struggled to stand up. She frantically thudded on the ground causing the earth beneath me to shake and tremble.

The large man stood, eclipsing the sun, and in his fury he desperately tried to fumble a glass over me. I was nervous, scared, my tail was trapped, oh if only I could just taste it.

Darkness now surrounds me, I look up to see nothing but the foot of the monster.

7.