Verity Rose
Trigger Warnings: Drug references, hallucinations, mention of death, mention of maths class.
‘My eyes weren’t really seeing. You know? It was like the universe didn’t exist and then I became the universe.’
‘Yeah, bro. I know what you mean.’
Cerulean sequins don’t taste like the sweet and sour tablets I thought they would. My tongue curls over itself and laps over my tastebuds like sandpaper over broken concrete, lightly dusted with Wizz-Fizz. The taste shocks my mind and soul, pulling me into the scene around myself. The lime-green palm trees sway in the lemon-drop breeze like those wiggly figures at car dealerships. Their leaves rustle and crinkle and it makes me cough up bubbles that ripple through the air like soap in water, only to burst and pop with giggles. The effort takes me back a step and my feet sink slightly into the chocolate mud beneath me. Suddenly, my shoes have disappeared into the brown earth beneath me and, despite my efforts to escape, my legs squelch in the mud, sinking deeper into the ground.
Perhaps I should be scared, but I’m not. My heart’s rhythm is being played by a toddler who broke into the pots and pans—drumming along with no beat or volume patterns to find. The tempo makes my body sick, but my mind likes its music. The whole world around me is playing the most insane melody—a chorus brought to life to sing me to my death as I slowly sink into the chocolate. I ask myself if I’m going to die and the thick, sweet wind whispers in a language I don’t understand. I believe it said that I am, in fact, going to perish. I am going to die. I can’t picture myself getting out of this situation. I can already see myself opening my lungs to be filled with the slick and slow chocolate. It would fill every crevasse of my insides and strangle the air from my lungs. It would seep into my bloodstream and solidify, mummifying my body in sweet goodness.
The painfully calm image is oh so tempting, but a voice inside me reminds me that I am not dead just yet. My feet continue their fight against the ground. They push and pull against the strangling squelching that keeps me fixed to the floor. I’m getting tired and sick of this. I don’t want to die. The tempo of my heartbeat is racing. My once white shoes are now certainly ruined, my socks are wet, and I can feel my toes pruning in the chocolate’s wetness. My feet and legs ache in agony, and I want to just fall into my bed and sleep. I want out of this place, but the chocolate’s grasp clings to me, keeping me here. How dare it? I know punching the chocolate will do no good, but I can’t stop my fist flying through the air. The action doesn’t make me feel any better, but it feels good to release the impulse.
Bubbles of bright pink bubblegum drool and hiccup out of my mouth, releasing little whines and complaints as they pop in the sweet breeze. I hate this. My legs are killing me, and this chocolate isn’t budging. I can’t tell if I’m making any progress on my escape or if my struggles are only sinking me deeper into the chocolate. The palm tree’s sour apple scent drifts to me, mocking my predicament, making my dry, desert mouth salivate. I want their taste; I want their candy. But this stupid chocolate is keeping me here. I hate it. The squelching won’t cease, and I punch the oobleck-like ground again, only to fall onto my side. Hands of chocolate wrap around me, dragging me down, embracing me in a brown, sticky mess. Giant, red bubbles fly out of my mouth and the world erupts in my screams as the bubbles pop. I want to hit and kick and punch the stupid ground that won’t let me go but I can’t move my arms.
I just want everything to go away. I squish my eyes closed and open them again, each time demanding the world to slip away and go back to normal. The world does not obey. One monstrous bubble bursts from my throat and yells out an exhausted scream for help. The palm trees just sway in the breeze, laughing at me. I punch the chocolate once again, but my knuckles meet rocky concrete. Pain ripples up my hand, through my arm and into my skull. My arm shivers in agony, slipping easily back through the bog like it was just chocolate milk. All the while, the rest of my body struggles to sit and breathe comfortably in the thick sludge. My arm’s rapid shaking is enough to stop the chocolate from solidifying. My eyes light up like sparkling stars at the concrete step beside me. Why was I spending so much time fighting the chocolate when I could have simply stepped out of it? Typical.
I raise my hand and prop my weight onto the block. My body escapes the chocolate with a thick thwick, leaving a perfect imprint of half my body as if I were cast in silicon. Standing on the concrete step, I assess my chocolate prison and raise two middle fingers to the brown sludge. Turning back to the green palm trees, their leaves now shake violently upon the sight of my freedom. Beside one of the candy trees lays an old axe and my uneven heartbeat lightens. I approach the axe and the trees with glee, skipping with each step. Picking up the axe and swinging it over my shoulder, the palms shiver, their sounds in the wind begging for my mercy. At least, that’s what I assume they’re saying since I don’t understand the language of the trees. I plunge the axe into their liquorice-like trunks. Each swing of the axe leaves a rainbow in its movement. Sparks fly where the axe meets the palm trees and purple-tasting music fills my ears. Tiny bubbles and suds sprinkle through the air, popping to release their cries of joyous laughter. Soy sauce drags down my face from my tear ducts, and it tastes amazing. My ears are filled with the cries of palm trees, laugh-filled bubbles, purple music, and sparkles; and I can’t help but skip and dance on the spot at the sound.
‘It was kind of insane.’
‘No kidding.’
‘So much better than sitting through maths class, though.’
Verity Rose (she/they) is a Meanjin-based (Brisbane) poet, screenwriter, and novelist working on the 2024 Content Writing Team at ScratchThat. She has been writing stories since she was four and has studied screenwriting at universities since she was sixteen. Verity consistently incorporates the new experiences and ideas that she’s gotten from living and travelling around the world—from North America to outback Australia—into her writing.
With a diverse artistic background in oil paints, acrylics, charcoal, and printmaking, Tremayne Stocks (he/him) creates a multitude of art which reflects his personal connections to his upbringing in Bryon Bay. Influenced by the urban cityscape he currently resides in, Tremayne aims to communicate the beauty of Australia’s vast and alluring nature, as well as display his own use of art as an emotional outlet.
Instagram: @tremaynestocks_art