Hungry.

The blinds are closed, and I’m reading Edgar Allan Poe. The television is on, and I’m watching Twin Peaks. Somewhere in my head a phrase is bouncing, bouncing like a hailstone on the grass. Ah yes, I must write that one down.

But oh I am so hungry.

I glance at the telephone. No. It’s peaceful here. I peek out through the blinds. What a glorious day! I long to go out for a stroll through the alley and marvel at the way the light streams through the cobwebs.

The refrigerator is humming. It is full of fortunate food, and I wish I could be on a plate beside the leftovers and the pitcher of iced tea, even for half a minute. Smothered in margarine. Proving that the light does go off when the door is closed: a dark, enchanting womb, the closest I’ll come to heaven in this life.

I sigh and take a bite of cold pizza. It does nothing for me.

I fold the slice in half and imagine it’s a mouth smiling at me with little pepperoni teeth. I wish it could… just… eat me.

Ficlets isn’t ready for my masterpiece.