Jellyfish 3.0 | Fall 2010 | leave the archives

Timothy Wojcik is an English (with a Creative Writing emphasis) student at Hendrix College, and he lives in Conway, Arkansas. He keeps a blog at He has work forthcoming form Spork Press.

Timothy Wojcik


The bottoms of my teeth all opened up, and hundreds of thousands of little teeth begin to pour out. There are more teeth in my teeth I say with difficulty, with so many tiny teeth cascading off my bottom lip, like a waterfall. Nobody is around to hear. The tips of my fingers pop off like bottle caps, and scores of very thin very long fingers begin to extend out from inside. Ah, spaghetti fingers make up the insides of my fingers I say, attempting to scratch my head, but breaking a few of the delicate fingers in the process. The trap door in my stomach opens, and miniature versions of my ribcage, complete with internal organs within, begin to fall to my feet. My insides have more insides to spare I say, almost hysterically, trembling. I think this may be dying, but who can be sure? I feel an itch on my forehead, and, when I scratch it, I feel a crack up the middle, extending to the nape of my neck. It feels wrong to continue to scratch, but the itch is too strong for me to stop myself. My head eventually cracks open, and, from the depths of me, tiny little versions of me, all naked, covered in amniotic fluid, screaming, jump out. They gnaw on my toes. They take my rib cages and make them into armor of sorts. They break my spaghetti fingers apart into inch long segments, and affix my little teeth on top. They wield them like axes. They're all going to battle of some sort. I'm a brave boy they all say over and over, marching in perfect unison northward. I think good, northward we go, and I've never felt more proud, or alive.