W.C. Bigelow
(Except the cicadas.) You are currently the one reading this block of text. There is a room. You and I are not in the room. The psychic scraps recycled for use in the manufacture of this block of text may or not have been in that room prior to their appearance here in absurd amalgamation. Someone was once offered lunch in the room. The room has a window. No one looked out the window when lunch was being offered; that modicum of time could be considered uncomfortable. The lunch selections were not the source of fear or discomfort. Many mental mutations may make monsters of the once innocent or vice versa. Former monsters may make formidable obstacles to those who find sadism sublime. The lunch that was offered had three drinks on the side to choose from. Pamplemousse was one. Another one was plain seltzer, except it contained a tinge of a flavor singular in its acridity. This may or may not have been caused by where the plain seltzer water came from. The third seltzer, which ended up being guzzled in one thirsty blow against dehydration by the one who the lunch and one of these three drinks to choose from had been offered to. Efforts to avoid eating the lunch led to dehydration as life itself will lead us to dehydration when we are waiting or working or whining or winning without water in regular intervals. Even when one wastes their life in moments and situations that may or may not be considered to be malignantly effervescent, the effervescence of that greasy modicum of time will go flat just like Pamplemousse seltzer that was left out too long unless water is guzzled down in one fiercely thirsty blow against dehydration in regular intervals. The third drink was also a seltzer. It did not contain cicada guts, but it tasted like cicada guts due to the flavoring process that occurred in a way and at a time in a plant known only to those in that room or some of those in that room. It is important to take comfort knowing that nothing and no one inside this exists in the modicum of time during which you are the one who is reading this block of text. Bland malevolence was used to season the lunch itself. Among other things, an apple was soaked in a vat filled with countless types of animal grease. Would you and I be willing to try a bite of an apple like that? That question may or may not be moot because during this modicum of time, nothing inside that room exists. There are no exceptions to that all. There may or not be exceptions to that statement. Sublime sadism may exist outside of that room. Malignant effervescence may exist outside of that room. Bland malevolence may exist outside of that room. Greasy apples may or may not definitely exist outside of that room, and may or may not exist next to carbonated water that is definitely seltzer. Artificially created cicada guts flavor for the sweetening of plain carbonated water may not exist outside of that room. Cicadas exist outside of that room. They may not always exist outside of that room. One day, they may ONLY exist INSIDE that room, in a uniquely putrescent modicum of time flavored by the disappearance of regretful revenants. I try to only think of that room in rare moments; it is unclear if I can put the psychic scraps generated by these thoughts of nonexistent items surrounded by those nonexistent for now walls into something that is both useful and benevolent. It is unclear if anyone can. (What is clear is that the fear feels less putrescent and does not permeate certain snapshots of memory if one can enjoy the sound of cicadas when they are out and about.)
W. C. Bigelow (he/him) lives and writes in Virginia. His favorite genre of fiction is cosmic horror. A college dropout, Bigelow has enjoyed as well as not enjoyed several job positions in his career, including dishwasher, line cook, landscaper/lawn mower, while also managing to serve in various capacities as a civic-minded volunteer. This is his first piece of prose poetry to be published. More information will be found on his website: wcbigelow.wordpress.com
