By Henry Martin
A room…a dust covered incandescent bulb radiates a stream of tired lumens outwards into the space framed by four walls, one ceiling, and some kind of a floor. There are neither windows nor doors—how did I enter…how am I going to exit? The floor squeaks but, since the light doesn’t reach the floorboards, I am not destined to find the source of that noise. What am I walking on?
The walls, unable to decide whether to be yellow or orange, finally settle on an awkward shade of ochre. It reminds me of the desert—the desert I never visited and never really intended to see. There is something about scorpions that makes me uneasy.
The ceiling hangs above me like heavily siliconized nipple-less breast. The plastics always scared me, unnaturally pointing forth…always forward, as if they had a place to be; like they were about to burst through the fabric and I was in the way of their freedom. Destination plasma. The ceiling bulges but remains above my head, its purple paint sparkling like a nest of freshly born stars. Continue reading