I was washing dishes by hand.  Scrapping hardened microwaved cheese off a plate.  Music was blaring in the living room.  I always play music when I am cleaning house.  This time is was Pink’s Try.

Where there is desire, there is gonna be a flame
Where there is a flame, someone’s bound to get burned
But just because it burns, doesn’t mean you’re gonna die
You gotta get up and try, and try, and try
Gotta get up and try, and try, and try
You gotta get up and try, and try, and try

I was doing that.  I was trying.  I was tired of trying but it didn’t matter.  I had to get the cheese off the plate and it was not co-operating.  I had to do lots of things that mattered and I was stuck trying to get fucking cheese off a plate.

The room was getting smoggy.  I looked up and the morning light filtering through the windows was settling on wisps of smoke dancing near the ceiling.  I looked at the oven and it was off.  The stove was off.  Something in the house was on fire but I just stood there scrubbing crusted plastic-like cheese off my old Walmart ceramic plate.

I could hear fire engines nearby over the sound of Pink’s Funhouse.

Echoes knocking on locked doors
All the laughter from before
I’d rather live out on the street
Than in this haunted memory

I’ve called the movers
Called the maids
We’ll try to exorcise this place
Drag my mattress to the yard
Crumble tumble house of cards

This used to be a funhouse
But now it’s full of evil clowns
It’s time to start the countdown
I’m gonna burn it down down down

Funny.  Of all songs to start playing. I started laughing but it felt more like crying.  I was wearing a pink frilly apron fishnet stockings and ruby red high heels.  I turned and looked at my reflection in the microwave glass and I couldn’t see my face through the smoke. I turned back to the sink and started scrubbing the cheese again.  The damn fucking cheese.

The house was starting to get dark inside.  I looked up and the wisps of smoke had become billows of angry black.  The sunlight could no longer find its way inside.  I could hear men yelling outside and knocking on the front door.  Hard footfalls landing on the roof.


I didn’t smell the smoke.  It wasn’t burning my eyes.  I dropped the plate with the hardened cheese on the floor and watched it shatter into a billion pieces before being swallowed by the black smoke.

I turned to go turn off the music when I realized my movement was different.  I was faster.  I was everywhere. I felt consumed.  Life was consuming me. I was consuming me.

I was fire.




3 thoughts on “CONSUMED BY CHEESE

  1. Hasty, your dreams and your writing of them astound me. A song springs to mind, not of being fire, but a conversation with fire and being consumed. “Joan of Arc”, by Leonard Cohen. reblogging


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