Whalefall

by Daniel Kraus

The view from his mask is abridged, obscured. Bubbles, his own; an ogling eyeball, the squid’s; the burly bow of a fleshy ship, the whale’s. The sucking force pulls his tendons, bone-ends eight-balling into sockets. Pure panic whines from Jay’s chest. What’s happening? Cylinder malfunction? Canyon rip current? Then Jay’s facing the whale, and the oily megalith splits open as if by ghostly hatchet. The bottom jaw lowers six feet. After that, all Jay sees are teeth. Forty, fifty, sixty teeth.