by Jesse Highsmith
I no longer hear the ocean outside my cabin door. In its place are sounds much more sinister—scratching, clawing, pounding. I try to rest my weary head, but distant screams echo from down the hall. They are me. Or rather, they will be me. My door is already misshapen, giving way to the immense pressure of crazed tourists hungry for flesh. Now it is only a matter of time before I become the vile stench.
It’s been thirty-seven days since the cruise liner Jubilee ran aground, and thirty-one since its kitchen was picked clean. I hope the others choke.
Jesse Highsmith is a writer, musician, father, husband, and overall goofball from Central Florida, United States. He keeps his head in the clouds during his workday, and collects scribbled notes on long nights. Occasionally, he even finishes his projects.