It’s been about two weeks now since I had been introduced to the cosmic entity enrolled at my high school. In that time we’ve only played a few games to keep ourselves entertained while at school, either during gym class or study hall. For the most part, however, our interactions have been pretty mundane. Despite the power at Jenny’s finger tips, she very much prefers to spend most of her time just talking to people and hanging out, no different than anyone else our age. Granted, it appears as anything else but normal from my perspective, so long as she chooses to remain 12 ft tall almost all of the time. From a distance, watching a 12 ft amazon chat with other cheerleaders, and not one of them has even the slightest clue that her stature is abnormal, is surprisingly hilarious. It’s like there’s a literal elephant in every room she’s in, but no one outside of the two of us has any idea that elephant exists.

Usually when I hang out with her, whether we’re playing one of her games, or just conversing, it’s only the two of us. Jenny has an incredible ability to transform from an introverted young girl with a big secret, to a charismatic woman capable of befriending just about anyone. I don’t think that has anything to do with her powers, personally, even though it’s one of the most astounding tricks I’ve ever seen her demonstrate. She just has the natural talent to make friends and be likeable. I don’t have whatever skill she’s acquired throughout her young life, and instead choose to stand slightly apart from the rest of the crowd. Jenny seems to understand this, and elects to exclude her other friends from our interactions. It’s pretty cool, actually. Not only do I have the privilege of knowing a side of Jenny that no one else on this Earth knows, but I get exclusive time with her whenever she wants to talk to me. I can only imagine how others must look at me all of the time, going through life with so few friends. If you ask me, though, despite all of the loneliness I’ve carried over the years, I’ve managed to make some of the best possible choices with the friends that I do have.

Strength training had just ended ten minutes ago, giving way to lunch time. I never had anyone to sit with during lunch, which at first lead to some awkward periods spent with teachers who felt sorry for me. After that, rather than suffer through that fresh level of hell, I decided to spend my lunch periods in one of the music rooms. This one was primarily for the marching band or choir, so it was rarely ever occupied during regular school hours. It was stocked with instruments to the point where it was almost difficult to traverse the enclosed area. A grand piano was just to the right of the door, with the back pointed towards the four raised steps the school’s choir would stand on. To the left were a few standing basses and as well as one of each brass instrument, reserved for band members who’ve neglected to bring their own for practice. To the right of them were some xylophones of different sizes, positioned in front of a shelf of books containing sheet music. Finally, against the wall to the left of the door leading into the room, was a few racks which held almost thirty second-hand, worn, and beat up acoustic guitars.

My dad is a music lover, a trait he passed onto me through repeated exposure throughout my childhood. It was inevitable that I’d grow up to one day learn guitar. Having said that, I need to make two points especially clear. No, guitar has not made me popular in anyway, nor has it attracted any attention from girls. Considering my music tastes lie back within the 60’s and 70’s, no one my age has ever been really impressed by my playing. I knew this would be the case from the start, though. There’s only so much writing and homework I can do to pass the time without going insane. Learning an instrument was almost a necessity, born from a desire for a hobby that didn’t involve going out any more than I wanted to. I could just sit up in my room by myself for hours and either write a story or play. To me, music is just a beautiful distraction from my isolation.

I sat on the third step of the choir platform, my half eaten lunch beside me, and one of the beat up guitars over my right knee. I wasn’t playing anything in particular, rather I just allowed a melody to manifest from my spontaneous plucking of strings. Every move of my fingers was improvised, yet precisely constrained to the limited scales of which I was versed in. Somehow, something coherent came from it all. It wasn’t beautiful, or unique, or even especially impressive to my ears. It was just an escape. A little stress reliever that would ensure I would make it through the rest of the day without losing my mind. For a while, I was at peace with the world.

“So this is where you go to hide from me?” thundered a voice from just outside the door.

The cheap nickel strings uttered a horrible, piercing cry as my fingers twitch in violent reaction to the voice. My gaze immediately locked onto the doorway, where I beheld Jenny squeezing her amazonian frame through the miniscule entrance. When I asked her why she doesn’t simply make the doorways bigger, she told me that she enjoys the tight fit. It only serves to emphasize her superior height, and from this perspective I had to agree. An 800 lbs grizzly bear wouldn’t look any less threatening if it had to carefully maneuver its way through a door in order to get at you. If anything, it would only give you a few more seconds to shit yourself while waiting to die. The good news is, Jenny wasn’t a grizzly bear.

The bad news is, she was also Jenny.

Her tirade never ceased while she attempted to gain access to the already compacted room.

“If all you do is come in here to listen to music then I don’t see why it has to be such a secret. It’s not like you’re even listening to anything weird. Could have just told me and I would have joined y-”

Her rant cut off the moment she was fully in the room and had the opportunity to look up at me. I had been so preoccupied with processing her entrance that I neglected to put down the guitar. The second she saw me still holding it, her eyebrows climbed almost to her hairline.

“John?” she asked. “Were you just playing that?”

Trying to come off as indifferent, I merely shrugged.

“That depends on what you heard. If it sounded good, then it was probably someone else.”

“Oh my God!” she exclaimed. Her face breaking out into an ear to ear smile. “You never told me you could play guitar!”

“You never asked,” I replied.

“I mean . . .” she shook her head. “Why keep this a secret? The way you talked about never being at lunch, you made it sound like you were doing something sinister. Like building a bomb . . . or masturbating.”

I was suddenly caught somewhere between a coughing fit and laughter. Once you get to know Jenny’s real self, she becomes remarkably unafraid to speak her mind around you. Given her almost constant desire to explore her particular fetish, Jenny’s mind can be impressively lewd. I find it hilarious, even if it catches me off guard to hear these kind of jokes being made by a star cheerleader and athlete.

I managed to recover from my sporadic coughing fit in time to force out a retort. “Fortunately I have the good grace to wait until I get home to do that.”

Jenny, who had been carefully threading her way between all of the instruments, stopped halfway across the room and planted her hands on her perfectly curved hips.

“Hey, I didn’t come here to be attacked like this.” she said.

I broke out into a more controlled laughing fit for a second, which subsided after I noticed neither Jenny’s expression, nor her demeanor, had changed one bit.

“. . . . I’m not entirely sure if you’re joking now.” I expressed.

The giant cheerleader remained with her hands on her hips, a single eyebrow raised in challenge. My eyes widened slightly.

“You mean . . . . in school!” I exclaimed.

Jenny sighed as she shook her head. “Of course not in school.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling more at ease.

“I was standing over the school.” she finished.

The silence that followed that statement pressed down on the whole room as I processed what she had just told me. Several different reactions came to the forefront of my mind, only to get jammed up in the door while trying to escape, leaving me with little else to do but rub my eyes and sigh.

“I’m suddenly questioning my memory of every rain storm we’ve ever had.”

That finally brought out a laughing fit from her, which in turn lightened up the whole room. Having finally danced around and stepped over every instrument in her way, Jenny took a seat on the second step of the platform, just to my left. Even if she had been sitting on the floor, I doubt I would have been eye level with her. Sitting down, she still looks down on me while I stand. The steps groaned under her weight, but held fast, being used to supporting multiple normal sized students at once.

“So how come you’ve never told me about this?” she asked. “Most guys who play guitar can’t seem to wait to tell somebody.”

I shrugged, taking a minute to admire the beautiful, worn out instrument on my knee. “People don’t usually care if you can play an instrument. Not these days, anyway. Plus, this was always more for just myself. I’ve never needed to share with anyone about this.”

She nodded thoughtfully to that. “So what kind of stuff do you play?”

“A little bit of whatever I like.” I explained. “My favorite style is rock but I like songs from almost every kind of genre you can think of. Blues, alternative, Americana, folk, spanish, even a few country songs.”

“You’re certainly all over the map.” she chuckled. “I like that. Diverse tastes are interesting. Though I wouldn’t have pegged you for someone who likes folk.”

I nodded. “I like the down and dark style folk songs that tell stories. Songs that sounded like they might have once been sung in a prison or by marching soldiers. English and Celtic folk is really cool too.”

“Ah,” she expressed, finally understanding. “So it goes back to your love of stories.”

“Exactly,” I confirmed. “Only, stories spoken by word can make you see something that isn't there. But stories played through music make you feel something, something that’s real. . . .” I paused to consider if that even made any sense, before I shook my head. “I don’t know how else to describe it.”

“Then demonstrate it,” she replied, settling herself against the steps for better comfort. “Play something for me.”

I quirked an eyebrow. “You realize I don’t exactly play mainstream stuff, right?”

“Yes,” she said without missing a beat. “That’s why I want to hear you. Tell me a story.”

I blinked, not sure of what to say. I’ve never really been requested to perform before, so this was a new feeling. Not in an emotional way . . . seriously, it wasn’t.

After giving a moment’s thought to what song I would play, I took a capo out from my pocket and clamped it down on the seventh fret.

“This is an old song,” I told her, as I began plucking a few strings. “I think it goes back to Medieval times. A band called Traffic covered it in the 70’s. It’s called the Ballad of John Barleycorn.”

Jenny fell silent as I began plucking strings in a steadier pattern, doing my best to be precise in my tone. It’s a beautiful song, and I highly recommend anyone who hasn’t heard it to give the song a listen. Steve Winwood is a master performer. After a minute I began to recite the lyrics. I don’t consider myself a good singer, but you don’t have to be for a song like this. The real strength of the song comes from the story.

There were three men came out of the west, their fortunes for to try.

And these three men made a solemn oath, John Barleycorn must die.

They plowed, they sowed, they harrowed him in, threw clods upon his head.

And these three men made a solemn oath, John Barleycorn was dead.

They let him lie for a very long time, till the rains from heaven did fall.

And little Sir John sprung up his head, and so amazed them all.

They let him stand till the midsummers day, till he looked both pale and wan.

And little Sir John’s grown a long long beard, and so become a man.

From there, the tale turned morbid, describing how these men attacked, and tortured the man. He was cut off at the knee, stabbed with pitchforks, and bound up. Eventually he was sliced up some more, and finished off by being ground beneath two stones. Throughout all of it Jenny listened, and watched me intently. I find it hard to make eye contact with others whenever I’m playing something, so I avert my gaze. I could always feel her watching, though, with those wondrous eyes of hers. Only when I had finished the song, and the last pluck of the strings lingered hauntingly about the room, did I meet her stare. She blew out a slow breath.

“Wow,” she whispered. “That was . . . incredible. I mean, the whole song’s pretty horrendous, but you made it sound amazing.”

I looked down at the guitar. “The beauty is in the way Steve Winwood wrote the music. Anyone who knows how to play it will sound just as good.”

“I doubt that,” she said dryly. “What’s the song even about? Why’d those guys want John dead so badly?”

“They were thirsty.” I answered.

She quirked an eyebrow. “Is that supposed to mean something?”

“Everything.” I nodded. “The pieces are all there, and I just gave you the end product. Put them together.”

The blonde reality warper sighed. “You just love your puzzles, don’t you?”

“I brings me some form of entertainment, yes.” I admitted. “Now what do you make of it?”

“That people named John are dicks.” she glumly answered.

“True,” I agreed. “But what about this John? What was his crime?”

“Having a delicious name?” Jenny guessed.

I grinned. “Not just his name. All of him.”

“Do you not make sense on purpose!” she groaned. “Because it’s not as charming as you think.”

“No, but like I said, it’s entertaining, and that’s more fun for me.”

Jenny narrowed her eyes. “I’m about to have some fun of my own with you in five seconds.”

I rolled mine in response. “Barleycorn. He’s literally barleycorn. The entire song is about how the English would harvest barleycorn and turn it into beer.”

That gave her pause as Jenny considered the lyrics of the song, going over the descriptions of John Barleycorn’s ‘torture’ again in her head. In order of events, the song narrates how the barleycorn is planted, grown, harvested, cut up, ground, and made into alcohol. Eventually she leaned back against the steps again and chuckled.

“Leave it to the English to write a song about brewing.” she noted. “You ever been to London, John?”

I snorted. “Do I look like someone with that kind of budget?”

“No family vacations out of the country?” she casually asked.

I paused for a few moments before answering. “No.”

She shrugged. “There’s practically a pub on every street.”

“Are they nice?”

“I don’t know. The few times I was over there, I was just strolling through. Except, I wasn’t exactly low enough to look through any of the windows.” she explained.

“Ah,” I said, understanding dawning on me. “That kind of stroll.”

“Yep,” she confirmed.

Suddenly the quiet air of the music room was broken by the audible growling of Jenny’s stomach. Every student in high school has been in a position where they were starving in a class, and were fearful of the entire room hearing the calls of a dying whale that originates from their stomach. Now imagine that sound emanating from the body of a 12 ft tall athlete. For a split second I legitimately believed that there was a lion in the room. So sudden was the outburst of sound, neither of us spoke for a good few seconds after it had ceased.

“. . . . You aren’t going to eat me now, right?” I asked.

“Well. . .” she pondered. “I did have to skip lunch in order to go looking for you. . .”

“Your choice, not mine.” I reminded her.

But she ignored that, looking over at me with nefarious eyes “And, despite how wonderful your song was, it did make me hungry. What with all of the mentions of barleycorn and all.”

I glanced sideways at Jenny. By now I was actually becoming worried. “I’m pretty sure what you’re looking for is beer, then. Not me.”

Jenny turned her body so that she faced me while still leaning against the steps, her head propped up on her arm. “I’m still a few years away from the drinking age. But there’s no eating age.”

I paused for a few second to stare at her, searching in her eyes for any indication of her joking. When I didn’t find any, I stood up and stretched.

“Well too bad lunch’s almost over.” I noted, stepping down from the platform. “We should go-”

I stumbled on the last step and almost lost my balance entirely. When my foot touched down on the floor, the hard surface gave out a little under my weight, much like a bounce house. Fumbling a few steps forward, I managed to stay on my feet, and collect my bearings.

I only lost them again when I realized I was standing in the palm of Jenny’s hand.

She hadn’t moved from her reclined position on the platform, and now held me in her left hand. The hungry look in her eyes likewise remained constant, only it was infinitely more sinister at this height.

I swallowed nervously. “Ok Jenny-”

“Shhhhh,” she whispered. “Don’t think of it as dying. Think of it as giving yourself to me. You called me a goddess, after all, so be my offering.”

Her hand began to rise, drawing closer to her tantalizing lips. Half of me really wanted a closer look at them, but the rational half was still rightly afraid for my life.

“Jenny, this isn’t funny.” I expressed in as calm a voice as I could manage.

“I’m not trying to be funny,” she breathed, the gestures of her mouth were becoming hypnotic. “I’m too hungry for that.”

Her hand stopped just in front of her chin, and I was forced to look up at the smiling entrance of the abyss, just a few relative feet above my head. I must have been an inch tall or so, and the scale allowed me the chance to truly appreciate the details of Jenny’s mouth from up close. The texture of her lips, the whiteness of her teeth, and the soft heat of her breath that carried forth a strong fragrance of mint. I beheld them in open wonder for a solid minute, appreciating the sheer power the giantess wielded with just her mouth. Her lips came together, and from the depths of her throat came a deep hum that I could feel vibrate through the pit of my stomach.

“Are you ready for the ultimate voyage, my little morsel?” she whispered ever so delicately. “Just think. My body is so powerful and mighty, and you’ll be responsible for nourishing it.”

I was slowly falling into a mindset of transfixion. A miniscule part of my brain still recognized that my life could very well be in danger. But that was nonsense. Jenny was my friend. She was just trying to scare me . . . right?

“J-Jenny,” I croaked in a feeble attempt to plead her to stop.

“The best part of all of this? You’ll be with me at all times, in my stomach.” she assured me. “My favorite little snack who I can take anywhere I want.”

From out of her mouth rose Jenny’s tongue, like an enormous, pink whale breaking the surface of the ocean. Lazy, yet incredibly powerful. I was frozen, unable to take a step in the wake of the living muscle. It touched down gracefully onto her palm, and began its slow advance towards my diminished form. I was probably in the clear right now. Jenny was just going to lick me, have a good laugh, and return me to normal. All I had to do was just accept it and wait for it to be over. When the creeping wall of pink finally reached me, I had to physically brace myself for contact. It felt exactly how one would imagine. Soft, warm, and entirely wet. The textures of her tastebuds weren’t as pronounced as I had anticipated. Then came the lick, just as I had expected.

Then came the lift.

Without warning my body was lifted from Jenny’s palm by her tongue, and brought upwards until the moist wall had become a horizontal floor. I found myself lying down on her tongue, and raised my head in time to see her mouth just in front of me. Lined with teeth that could snap me in half with no effort at all, and curtained by red-painted lips. The warm breath that raced to escape her throat washed over me. The last thought in my head before I was literally swallowed alive into this void came from a well known novel that I had only read once.

Abandon all hope ye who enter here.

“Jenny!” I called out, as the tongue pulled me into the darkness.

“Be brave” came one final message, spoken under her breath, before the lips sealed me inside.

The air around me was humid to a degree I’ve never felt before. I felt soaked all over, whether from the saliva or her wet breath, I couldn’t tell. My eyes didn’t immediately adjust to the dark, leaving me almost blind for the majority of my time inside her mouth. Before I could so much as haul myself to my hands and knees, Jenny’s tongue lifted me up until I was pinned against the roof of her mouth. Though the impact wasn’t forceful, I was pressed hard against the ceiling of my newfound prison. From beneath me I could feel her tongue give way just a little bit. My bod remained mostly suspended to the roof of her mouth, stuck by the adhesive saliva coating my tiny body. The tongue didn’t entirely leave me, as it only backed up enough to alleviate most of the pressure. Ever so slowly it began to caress my shrunken form, sliding up and down the length of my body. Tasting me. Savoring my flavor. From just up ahead, where I imagine the throat to be, I heard a rush of air that sounded different from the others.

Jenny had just sighed.

Her tongue suddenly pushed me backwards towards the front of her mouth, still keeping me on the roof. The pink creature continued its prodding of my body, rubbing me this way and that. I gasped for air as breathing became increasingly difficult.

“Jenny!” I yelled. “Jenny let me out!”

I heard a slow intake of air, followed by the slow retreat of the tongue. I remained once again stuck to the roof of her mouth, unable to so much as pull one of my arms away. Just as my vision was beginning to adjust to the dark, light suddenly flooded into the mouth. Below me I could see Jenny’s jaw slowly moving up and down, followed by her tongue. The giantess was speaking. With every letter that required her tongue to touch the roof of her mouth, she made sure to tap me gently, her tongue practically kissing the surface of my trapped body.

“. . . Feed . . . Me . . .”

The cave was closed shut again, and her tongue returned to my prostrate form. This time it peeled me from the ceiling, allowing me to fall gently onto its soft surface. My relief was short lived, however. To my horror, Jenny’s tongue was moving me to her throat. Despite how slowly she must think she was moving, her tongue rushed towards the back of her mouth much faster than I could react. I had no hope of fighting against this. She was too powerful for me to even hope to fight back.

“JENNY PLEASE!” I screamed.

There came another rush of air as a sigh, and I was pushed over the edge. What came next was a terrible rush of air, and all encompassing darkness, as I fell into the abyss.