The Invention of Burping [Fiction, Female]

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Faber
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Joined: 03 May 2016, 01:12
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The Invention of Burping [Fiction, Female]

Post by Faber » 04 Dec 2018, 07:17

I finally wrote a complete story again instead of starting one and then abandoning it! And then promptly had the forum bug out and delete it from the text box without posting it. :p Spent the evening rewriting it from scratch. So here it is, without further ado!

- - - - -

When my family signed up for the foreign student exchange program my senior year, we were told to expect a certain degree of culture shock with our student from Panislavia. Anya, they said, spoke very good English and had a fairly high degree of familiarity with American culture, but of course there were always customs unique to each culture that would seem strange to outsiders. Just relax, we were told, and don’t be afraid if both you and Anya have habits that might seem odd to one another.

Anya, when we picked her up at the airport, did indeed speak very good, if slightly accented, English. She was my age, rail-thin, with pale skin and shoulder-length blonde hair and wrists like pencils. Pleasantries were exchanged—we’re so happy to meet you, did you have a good flight, Sarah will make sure to keep a close eye on you while you’re getting used to things.

What did she want for dinner, we asked, what food would be the most representative of the American culinary experience? Anya replied that really, she had no idea—Panislavia had existed in a state of food scarcity for centuries, so her knowledge of the subject was limited. “It’s why I’m so thin,” she explained—in fact, she added, for her country she was even considered a bit heftier than average. Looking at her sticklike legs and sharp, angular face, I found myself having a difficult time fathoming how that could be.

Well, we decided, to play it safe, we’d go with that most American of culinary staples: pizza.

Anya’s eyes widened when we arrived home and opened up the extra-large box of sausage and pepperoni, as though she were bearing witness to something holy. She scooped one, two, three slices onto her plate in quick succession, precariously balancing them along the edge. We said grace, and then our exchange student demonstrated the first of the cultural peculiarities we had been warned about.

She was absolutely voracious. The first slice disappeared within four bites; methodically and with relish, she mashed it between her jaws, then reached for the second slice. It, too, was gone within a few bites. Here, she paused, her lips gleaming with a thin coat of grease; carefully, probingly, she ran her tongue along them, absorbing each drop. My mother chuckled a little nervously, as if she couldn’t quite believe what she had seen.

Her lip-mopping finished, Anya reached for the glass of Coke we’d placed on her spot and brought the rim to her mouth. Tipping her head back, she swallowed, swallowed, swallowed, the carbonated, syrupy liquid sliding smooth and easy down her throat.

When the glass was drained, we learned the second cultural quirk our exchange student had brought with her.

Anya set the emptied cup back on the table with a solid clank, and patted her stomach with evident satisfaction. And then, a rumbling, guttural belch rolled from her lips. It was so deep, so base, for such a delicate-looking creature that it was almost as though something had possessed her, spoken through her belly and her mouth. She let it continue for several moments, until it had tapered away, and then picked up her third slice of pizza.

Before she could take a bite, she looked up at the rest of us and saw our faintly stunned expressions. “Oh!” she said, the realization hitting her, “is it different here in America?” In Panislavia, she explained, what she had just done was actually the height of politeness. “Food is so scarce,” she said, “and we are so seldom full. It is the highest compliment to show a host that their food has filled you up.”

Her explanation was so earnest that my parents seemed to feel guilty for their reaction. Well then, my mother said, smiling, we were honored she had given us such kind thanks—we would be sure to take note of it from now on and broaden our cultural horizons.

Beaming, Anya grabbed a fourth slice of pizza, sandwiched it on top of her third, and ate them both as one, munching happily away. Afterward, she drank down a second glass of Coke, again patted her stomach, and let out a thick, greasy burp of contentment.

- - - - -

The next morning, Anya proved to be as voracious as she had been the night before. Breakfast was eggs, bacon, toast, and orange juice; Anya had three eggs, strip after strip of bacon, and four slices of heavily buttered toast, and gulped at her orange juice as though it were a neverending fountain. When her plate was finally clean, she laid her hands on her midriff and let out a hearty belch that I could tell from across the table smelled of bacon grease.

“How did you get so good at that?” I asked her, my embarrassment overcome by curiosity. I’d tried to learn to burp on command when I was in middle school, to dismay my girlfriends, but I’d never managed anything more than feminine, airy half-burps, half-hiccups.

“It’s something all Panislavians learn from a young age,” she replied, grabbing another piece of bacon from the platter in the center of the table. “After all, we’re the only ones who know how it was invented.”

“Invented?”

And so she told me the folktale.

Many, many thousands of years ago, long before people were made, the god of the harvest, Balq, planted a great field of onions and let them grow. He planned to use them for all manner of stews and other dishes to last out the long winter, and looked forward all year to the day when he would pluck them from the earth. But, the day before harvest time, his greedy wife, the goddess Eruc, slipped into the field and devoured row upon row of onions until all of them were resting in her belly.

Balq was furious when he went to the field and saw that all that was left of his onions were holes in the dirt. “Who has eaten my onions?” he demanded of Eruc.

Smiling and rubbing her belly, Eruc said, “Not I! It was Lif, the god of sunrises—I saw him eating your onions!”

Fuming, Balq went after Lif, only for the god of sunrises to tell him that no, he had not even been near the field.

When Balq returned to Eruc, he again asked, “Who has eaten my onions?”

Again smiling and rubbing her belly, Eruc said, “Of course, I knew it couldn’t have been Lif I saw! It was Vasht, the goddess of rivers.”

And so Balq sought out Vasht, only to be told by the goddess of rivers that she had been forming new tributaries all week, and had not been near the field.

Indescribably furious, Balq returned home and said again, “Who has eaten my onions?” Once more Eruc smiled, and rubbed her belly, and said, “Oh, dear, I must not have seen the thief’s face clearly. We are never to know who ate your onions, alas, my husband.”

But Balq was a suspicious sort. And so he went to Clianth, the trickster god, and demanded his help in bringing the thief to justice. Smirking, Clianth produced a goblet from within his robe and poured within it a clear, sweet potion. “Once the thief drinks this,” Clianth said, “you shall know who stole your harvest.”

Returning home, the god of harvests told his wife that he’d just been to see Clianth, who’d given them a remarkable potion as a gift. “I thought it best that it go to you, my beautiful wife,” he said, and offered her the clear, sweet cup.

Eruc, never one to turn down a gift or flattery and certainly never one to turn down both, took the goblet from her husband and drank it down in one swallow, smacking her lips. When she had finished, Balq looked into her eyes, smiled triumphantly, and asked, “Now, who has eaten my onions?”

The goddess opened her mouth to answer Not I, my lord—but instead, a deep roaring like a thunderclap burst past her lips. It was loud, and it was mighty, and it carried on it the distinct, sweet tang of—onions.

For the next week, whenever Eruc tried to speak, nothing would come forth but belching to shame her for her crime. Balq was so taken by Clianth’s invention that, when he shaped humanity ages later, he poured into the ingredients a drop of the trickster god’s potion. As punishment for overindulgence, whenever a human had fallen into gluttony the potion would betray their sin for the world to know.

“But we Panislavians don’t much care for the gods,” Anya finished, taking another bite of bacon, “so we’ve turned their punishment against them. What they intended as a mark of shame is now our highest honor.” And, the story finished, she swallowed her last bite of bacon, leaned her head back, and let forth a short, meaty burp, as if punctuating the end of the tale.

- - - - -

Something in the story had been so wonderful that, even though I couldn’t place what it was, it drove me to distraction. Finally, I went to my mother and told her that we should always make sure that Anya’s meals were very big, since she’d starved for so long in her own country. The concern in my voice was so evident that my mother hugged me, touched at my thoughtfulness. Of course, she said, we’d do our best to make sure Anya never went hungry.

The first day of classes that fall semester, the beginning of senior year for both of us, my mother packed Anya’s lunch sack with two sandwiches, two apples, and three very large cookies. I offered her my own sandwich as well, insisting that I’d had a very big breakfast and she needed her strength. The exchange student gamely chewed it all up, and finished things off with the can of Pepsi I’d gotten her from a vending machine. When she expressed her gratitude with a cheerful, lengthy belch, we drew some stares from the other lunch tables, but I didn’t care. We stood up, Anya patted her stomach—slightly convex from the food distending it—and we went to class.

That evening, my father grilled hamburgers and hot dogs for dinner. Anya ate two of each, and then devoured a third hot dog when I slid it her way across the table. Licking flecks of ketchup from her lips, she opened her mouth, vented her appreciation, and then daintily wiped at her face with her napkin.

And so it went.

The next day, I slid Anya half my lunch to go with the lunch-and-a-half my mother had packed for her. And the next. And the next. At dinners, I’d always ask if she was sure she was finished, or wanted some extra dessert, maybe. She never turned me down. She ate and belched and ate and belched and ate and ate and ate.

By the end of the first month of school, “rail-thin” was no longer an accurate description. The convex curve her stomach would acquire after a particularly weighty meal was now a constant feature, bowing out just slightly beneath her shirt; the angles in her face had lost some of their sharpness; a soft bit of flesh hung beneath her lower jaw; her wrists, still thin, were no longer pencils. She and I would go for ice cream after school (I always paid), watch television while eating snacks late into the night, and always share our lunch together.

My mother commented approvingly on how our exchange student no longer looked like a waif. She and my father had by now gotten used to the frequent rumblings emitted by Anya at mealtime, but I had not. Every time it happened, I would remember the story she’d told me, and a tiny little shivering sensation would course through me. At night, I occasionally dreamed of goddesses and onions.

- - - - -

My parents were both out of town Halloween night, and entrusted me with handing out candy to the kids on our street. When Anya came down from her room, I said gaily, “Oh no, Halloween was canceled! We’re going to have to figure out what to do with this candy.”

I don’t know that she believed me, but she certainly didn’t protest. We sat together, unwrapping chocolate and fruit chews and caramel and everything else; for every piece that I ate, four went into Anya’s mouth. Another month had served to make her still more generous in form; her stomach’s curve was noticeable even when she wore more than one shirt, her chin broadened when she looked downward, her cheeks had started to swell like fruit feathering toward ripeness, her once-sticklike legs now brushed against each other toward the top. Our chatter was frequently interrupted by masticating and burping.

“I still can’t believe—RURRP—that Americans have a whole holiday just for sweets,” she said, sugar-induced rapture in her eyes. “It’s like some kind of fURRRRP—fairytale.” She thumped at her stomach, as if scolding it for interrupting her. “Your country is making me fat, Sarah. A fat Panislavian! Whoever heard of such a thing?”

“Oh, you’re not fat yet,” I said, in a tone that on the surface sounded reassuring; secretly, I hoped she’d hear the challenge buried underneath the words.

Chewing loudly on a Snickers bar, she chuckled thickly. “Jusht give me a few more nightsh like thish and we’ll shee about that. RUUUUURRRRP.”

When we’d worked our way to the bottom of the basket, Anya had lost a bit of the control she usually seemed to possess over her stomach. Its curve spasmed every few moments, and noises flew from her mouth in turn. They were almost hiccups, but they seemed too full for that, as if their cousin the burp was still in there somewhere. “My tummy is HURRLLLP. Happy,” she said, an idiot grin on her face. “So, soHIC. Happy.” Her hand floated across its surface, rubbing back and forth in little circles. “You’re too good to me, SarURRRRRP..” Frowning, she raised a finger. “SarRUUURRRP.

We collapsed into giggles at her uncooperative belly, which insisted on voicing its satisfaction for the rest of the night.

- - - - -

This seemed to mark a turning point in Anya’s eating habits. At meals, her belches, which before had been sparing, started to roll forth with greater frequency and abundance. It seemed to me, too, as though they’d taken on a different quality—they were richer, fuller, almost as if they were acquiring weight. In this, they mirrored their maker. Anya, growing plumper by the day, had fallen into an unending cycle—the more she ate, the more she expanded her capacity, the more she ate.

Thanksgiving was held with our extended family, and Anya came along in one of her new outfits, purchased by my mother when her old clothes had finally been definitively outgrown. The exchange student’s belly was now that, a belly—smooth and firm, still, due to its near-constant cargo of digesting food. Her chin went double when she laughed, and her legs rubbed together with languorous swooshing sound when she walked. I’d been trying to prepare her for the bombardment of food that was Thanksgiving, but I don’t think she’d quite believed me—her eyes widened when she saw the table, as they had when we’d eaten our first pizza on the night of her arrival.

I helped her to pile the maximum amount of food onto her plate, pointing out which dishes would pair well with which. When the first helping of everything rested heavy in her belly, she laid a hand to it and belched her approval, drawing bemused stares from my cousins and uncles and aunts. This relative restraint was kept up for most of her next two platters, but by the end of plate three her stomach had begun to swell, and rich, fulsome belches began to roll forth without her consent.

For her fourth plate, she would turn to me and burp teasingly after every dish had been consumed. This belch would smell of stuffing, that one of turkey, that one of sweet potatoes. By the time she’d finished, her breath was a mélange of spices and flavors, sweet and savory and hot and round.

Afterward, she lay on the couch, drunk with fullness, a contented grin on her face, her stomach rising in the air like a mound. The littlest family members would walk up to her, giggling; she’d turn and loose a guttural belch into their faces. As they ran away, giggling harder, she’d struggle to defend herself, interspersed by hiccups—“It’s poHIClite! I’m being respectHULP—respHICful!” She’d fall back on the couch, the air she’d taken in to shout churning within her; the kid would approach, she’d grin and belch again, and the cycle would repeat itself. “It’s good mannURP. MannURRRRP.” Giving up, she flopped back. “MannURRRRrrrrrRRRs.”

Finally, she fell asleep, her distended belly rising and falling in the air. I laid a plate with a single slice of pumpkin pie on top of her stomach and left her to rest; an hour later, when I came back, she was still asleep, but the pie had gone. I placed my ear to her mouth, and with each snoring exhalation an airy, whispering belch tasting of pumpkin pie tickled at me.

- - - - -

When December rolled around, Anya gazed longingly at images of Santa Claus. “Wouldn’t it be nice to look like him?” she asked.

“Old and with a beard?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“No, silly, ‘like a bowl full of jelly.’ That would be the nicest feeling.”

“Don’t look now, but I think you’re on your way,” I teased, poking at her stomach, which continued to round out. Sticking her tongue out at me, she took another handful of popcorn from the bowl that sat between us.

For Christmas, Anya gave me a hand-knitted scarf in the Panislavian tradition, which I wore with pride; I got her a five-pound bar of Hershey’s chocolate, which she thanked me profusely for and consumed throughout the day. By the time she stuffed the last chunk of it into her mouth, her eyes were positively glassy with gluttonous pleasure; she parted her lips and a gurgling ripple of a belch flowed outward, lazy and sluggish and sleek.

Raising my eyebrows, I cocked my head and said, “I felt like you’d be a little more thankful.”

Rolling her eyes, she placed a hand to her swollen stomach and pushed. I was rewarded with a belch so thick and rich with chocolate that it almost seemed semi-solid, laden with mass as well as sound. It oozed from her like mud, a glopping “uuurrrrRRRRrrrrrllllRRRRpppp” that spoke and smelled of cocoa and sugar.

“I’ll be even more thankful once I’m full,” she said, taking a swig from the mug of hot cocoa she carried in her hands.

By the time the day was over, Anya’s bowl certainly seemed to be full of jelly. She capped off the Christmas festivities by gulping down her umpteenth mug of cocoa, sighing contentedly, and promptly bursting the lower two buttons off her straining pajama shirt. My parents pretended not to notice; I leaned over and whispered in her ear, “Careful, Anya. I think you might be getting fat.”

Anya simply giggled, burped in triumph, and went to fetch the stray buttons.

Returning from the Christmas holidays, Anya was still hungover from all that she had devoured. In the middle of advanced math class, she let out a lethargic, burbling belch in the middle of the teacher’s sentence. “She’s not feeling well,” I hastily said. After class, she leaned over to me and whispered, “Liar. I’m feeling marvelous.”

- - - - -

Months passed. Anya ate. And ate. And ate.

Graduation day approached. She was enormous. Her face had lost all its angles—her cheeks were swollen and red, her chin double all the time now. Her walk had become a lazy waddle, her rear tilting from side to side with each stride. Her thighs were overstuffed sausages in skintight casings, her wrists gone from pencils to thick, fleshy tubes of meat. And her belly—it was the definition of round, a quivering grape that preceded her everywhere she went. She jiggled everywhere she moved, and every time she belched, the latter of which had become more and more frequent.

If burping was proper etiquette, she was the model of decorum. Each day began with a low, sleepy belch waking her from slumber. The eruptions grew shorter in length and louder in volume throughout breakfast, as if she was building up alertness for the coming day. She did her best to mask them during class, but in meals they were a constant form of punctuation, ending her sentences or dividing them up.

I never wanted it to end.

The night before graduation, I brought her to my room and told her I had a going-away present for her. She sat on my bed, expectant, the mattress groaning with her weight. Slowly, I reached beneath my dresser and withdrew the gift I had purchased earlier that day at the local farmer’s market.

It was a wicker basket, full to the brim with tiny green onions.

Surprise and delight dawned on Anya’s plump face, her rosy cheeks deepening a shade. Wordlessly, she looked at me inquisitively—For me?. I extended the basket—Who else?.

Tentatively, she reached in and plucked the first onion from the basket. Turned it over in her fat fingers, admiring it. Then popped it in her mouth and bit down.

Closing her eyes in pleasure, she chewed, her double chin bouncing with the motion. Gulped it down. Reached for the next.

She chewed. Swallowed. Plucked. Masticated. Ate. Ate. Ate. One onion went into her stomach. Two. Three. Four. Five, over and over, til I lost count. And then, finally, every single onion was resting in her orb of a gut.

Sighing with happiness and fullness, she laid both hands on her stomach and grinned. I grinned too, but then I noticed something—there was no sound, not contented release. Anya, her lips firmly closed, did not belch.

For a few moments, I cocked my head, confused. Then she raised an eyebrow, and I understood.

Putting on my best tone of consternation, I said sternly, “Who has eaten my onions?”

Placing a hand to her lips to hold back a sharp hiccup, Anya said, “Not I, my lord! It must have been your mother.”

Knitting my eyebrows closer together, I said angrily, “My mother is not at home. Who has eaten my onions?”

Her great stomach spasmed, and her throat strained to contain another lurching hiccup. “Ahh, I must have been mistaken. It was your father, he’s the thief.”

Now I was growing very wrathful indeed. “My father is not at home either. Who has eaten my onions?”

The exchange student’s whole being rocked with a suppressed hiccup. “Oh no, I must have missed the thief. I suppose we will never know.”

At that, I turned and headed downstairs, snatched a glass from the kitchen cupboard, and filled it to the brim with water. Carrying it back upstairs, careful not to spill a drop, I poked my head into my bedroom doorway. “You look awfully thirsty, Anya,” I said. “You should drink this.”

Anya’s face was completely flushed, and she looked as though the effort of rising from the bed would send her over the edge. With even, measured steps, I strode toward her and placed the glass in her hands.

She grinned weakly, looked me straight in the eye, and raised the cup to her lips. Gulped. Clear, sweet liquid slid down her throat into her belly, until there was no more.

Smirking, she placed the glass on my bedside table.

I held her gaze. “Now,” I said. “Who has eaten my onions?”

She opened her mouth, a reply forming on her lips.

It never made it there.

A belch surged upward from her stomach, through her throat, and out from her mouth. It was like absolutely nothing I had heard before, liquid and solid and gas all in one, the sound like a waterfall bursting from her belly. It was an encapsulation of overindulgence, gluttony fixed in space, and it reeked with the sweet tang of green onions.

It was so overwhelming, so all-consuming, so eloquent in its wordlessness, it was as though she were inventing it for the first time.

Finally, the mammoth belch ceased. It didn’t fade away—Anya simply clapped her jaw shut, the continuing burp reverberating from behind her closed lips. She thumped both hands down on her belly with a meaty slap, as if to stem the tide. Several moments passed; she opened her lips and tried to explain herself. “ItHICCULP.. It wasHULP. It was notHULLLLLP. NotHULP. HULP. HULLLLP.. Not I, my Lo—”

Just as her stomach started to swell again, I rushed forward and pressed my lips against hers.

Anya’s next belch welled up, rushing into me, filling me. It tasted of every single thing she’d eaten since she’d set foot here—sweet, sour, savory, a thousand spices and flavors entering me at once. I did not hear it so much as I felt it—the heat entering my throat, the vibrations traveling through my whole body. My stomach pressed against her swollen sphere of a stomach, and I felt it sloshing and roiling with fullness.

We did not part our lips for a long time.

For the first time since she’d arrived here, Anya did not come down to dinner. Her queasy, oniony, utterly joyful burps could be heard from the kitchen below. Afterward, I went back to my room to find her sprawled across my bed, her belly a hill rising from her middle. She turned her head, opened her lips to greet me, and instead let fly a belch of greeting, fat and abdominous and complete. It was a language without words or grammar, each eruption of fullness its own description, and I understood her perfectly.

For the rest of the night, I tasted onions.

- - - - -

A couple of weeks after we’d hugged goodbye and she’d returned to Panislavia, I received a package from Anya in the mail. I opened the attached envelope first—it contained a card, which read:

Sarah,

I don’t think my family could believe their eyes when I landed, more than twice the girl I was before. A fat Panislavian, truly and hugely and perfectly FAT—a miracle, they said! I was very well-treated in America, I told them. See for yourself if you don’t believe me!

I cannot thank you enough for helping me to become who I am. I don’t know yet what my plans are, but I do know I want to come back to America before long—Panislavia still has not nearly enough food for my liking, and I don’t want to be constrained. I want to grow, and grow, and grow.

May we see each other again soon. Til then, I remain joyfully, hugely, fully yours,

Anya


Inside the card was a photo that must have been taken once she landed in Panislavia. In it, Anya is indeed fat. Her second chin hangs low and wobbling from her rounded, rosy face, her belly preceding her like a mountain of blubber, straining against the buttons of her blouse. Her mouth is wide open, in either a laugh or a belch—to her, they have become the same thing. Another young woman stands next to her, one who looks a great deal like the former thin version of her now-unrecognizable relative; Anya is at least twice her size.

To the other Panislavians, she must have seemed faintly divine, an impossibility. To me . . . well, she seemed the same.

Peeling the wrapping paper off her package, I revealed a paperback book whose front cover read in gold foil: Folklore of Panislavia. Below this title, there was a charcoal sketch of what looked remarkably like a basket of onions.

I flipped the cover open to the flyleaf. There, written in blue ink, was the inscription:

To my Balq,

Always and eternally,

Your Eruc.


I hope to see Anya again soon, even fatter and fuller and with even more irrepressibly good manners than when we parted. Until then, I keep her gift close, and think of all that we invented together.

hubworld23
Posts: 35
Joined: 01 May 2017, 09:13
Gender: Male - Male

Re: The Invention of Burping [Fiction, Female]

Post by hubworld23 » 04 Dec 2018, 10:40

Dude this story is Amazing! You should continue making More!

mr luigi
Posts: 51
Joined: 27 Jan 2013, 06:33
Gender: Male - Male

Re: The Invention of Burping [Fiction, Female]

Post by mr luigi » 04 Dec 2018, 22:37

Hey man great job with this story! It was a fun and awesome read. I thought Anya was going to send Sarah the burping potion in the mail at the end that would have been cool but great job. Keep up the good work!

Faber
Posts: 18
Joined: 03 May 2016, 01:12
Gender: None specified - None specified

Re: The Invention of Burping [Fiction, Female]

Post by Faber » 05 Dec 2018, 05:44

mr luigi wrote:
04 Dec 2018, 22:37
I thought Anya was going to send Sarah the burping potion in the mail at the end that would have been cool
Ha, it's funny that that never occurred to me considering most of the stories I write are fantasy. Maybe in the sequel, if I can be arsed to write one. :P

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