May 2026: The Worm Squirm
“The Worm Squirm,” Warren said, tapping the survey map with a cracked fingernail. “Thirty metres. Turn at this chamber.”
The passage was only a pencil line on the laminated sheet. It ended in a small oval marked
TURN CHAMBER.
Matt and Dylan studied it for the last time.
Three years earlier Matt had backed out halfway through, shaking so badly he could barely clip his helmet back on. Dylan was the only caver to conquer the Worm in seven years. Two others had died trying.
Dylan was already pulling off his backpack.
Warren checked his watch.
“Seven minutes. Helmet off at the shelf. Left shoulder through first.”
Matt nodded and removed his own pack.
No one spoke.
Lee gave a short laugh. “Quiet, isn’t it?”
Helmet lights criss-crossed catching faces both rock and flesh.
Dylan slid headfirst into the crack. Within seconds, his boots vanished into darkness.
Matt followed.
Warren held up five fingers, then two.
Lee watched Matt’s legs disappear into the fissure.
The limestone closed around him immediately: cold stone against shoulders, chest, hips. Matt pushed forward on his elbows while the beam from his headlamp bounced wildly off wet rock centimetres from his face.
Warren kept his eyes on the stopwatch.
“They must trust their memory.”
Ahead of Matt, Dylan’s boots scraped grit.
The passage dipped.
Matt exhaled and squeezed forward. Stone pressed hard against his ribs. He felt the cave through his body now rather than his eyes: every millimetre measured in pressure.
Seconds passed.
“Helmet off before the second restriction,” whispered Warren.
Ahead, Dylan stopped moving.
“The shelf. Helmet off here.”
Matt unclipped his helmet and pushed it one-handed into the dark. It always amazed him how darkness played with space.
A flicker of Dylan’s lamp moved ahead.
“Keep moving.”
Warren eyes on the time, ticked an unseen list.
“Third restriction. Exhale. Keep moving. Don’t stop in the slot.”
Matt slowed.
Every movement was now guesswork.
His left shoulder jammed. His chest flattened against stone. When he inhaled, his ribs expanded just enough to lock him tighter.
A metre ahead, Dylan’s light disappeared around the bend into the turn chamber.
Matt tried to reverse instinctively, but there was no leverage. The toes of his boots scraped uselessly for purchase.
“Five minutes.” Warren continued, “There’s a spot where the wall takes your left shoulder before your hips can clear.”
Dylan called back, “Matt, exhale at the slot.”
Matt emptied his lungs and pushed forward a fraction.
Then inhaled again.
Too soon.
The cave tightened instantly around him.
Dylan’s voice drifted to him.
“Listen to your breathing.”
Matt tried to answer, but the breath came back thin and high in his throat.
Silence.
Warren checked his watch.
Eight minutes.“Matt?”
They all heard the small, involuntary gasps.
Lee stared into the crack, pale now.
Another thirty seconds passed.
A long exhalation.
Without looking at Lee, Warren said softly, “Get help.”
He turned to the Worm.
“Matt? … Matt? Backwards, mate. Backwards.”
Don Sanderson
Right Left Write’s May prompt was Backwards. New prompts are announced monthly February-November in QWC’s Pen & Pixel email newsletter.
Find out more about Right Left Write at www.queenslandwriters.org.au/rightleftwrite.
Right Left Write’s April prompt was Backwards.