All this projected hassle finally gave way to Robert rolling to the other side of the bed, this movement spurring a memory of the battle against nausea before the fast humiliating defeat, but at no point did Robert recall throwing up anything quite like this: it was about the size of an eggplant, though in color more reddish-brown, its body a mishmash of textures and lumps, a goulash molded into a ghoul.
--- This is the point at which the protagonist discovers what came from his body the alcohol-fueled night before. "Farther Room" is one of the best short stories I've read in a while -- not your traditional horror fare; far creepier than most. The kind of story that reminds me why I subscribe to The New Yorker.
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