by Matthew Reynolds
Blueberry Milkshakes, the sweetest taste I can fathom. Fathoms upon fathoms, frothy foamy, bluish black, dripping, seeping into my subconscious. Dense and delectable, a dearth of absence appears in my desk the moment the disk upon its surface is incomplete, with the blueberry milkshake.
Today, I walked through the streets. Down, down, down the road, to a feeble, fickle light at the bottom of the hill. Cobblestone and brick, winded willows and shufflers, aimless and transparent.
The light enveloped me, flickering and feeble, feeble and flickering. I felt pulses, as if a denseness of air, pound into me as I walked into the room. I saw steel seats, harshly cut table with screws, as if assembled straight from the saw. A surface, a counter, and then a cash register I saw, sparkling through its grimy grit, with tiny circles protruding from its mechanisms. The singles and solitudinous were there, foam on their mouths, chuckling in silence, off and on, but a piercing quietness, aside from the chewing and slurping and bubbling froth, almost pained me. I stepped onto the mat, pushed forth past the grating, the floor with holes, down past the disheveled tables, to the cashier.
My hand reached out, trembling, and rapped the key for the milkshake of my desire. A boy, dressed in blue, stepped into my peripheral vision. It took me a slow second to see him, but I couldn't see his face, he walked past me, under the desk, and took a sharp right before I noticed anybody was there. I heard a slow, slow grinding, like berries, like pulp, and a trickle, then a pour, then silence. I looked at the desk, the swirls and pockmarked film plastered on its precipice, and a clank, and a glass, appeared before me. Without looking up, as if distracted, my long fingers wrapped around it. I spun around and I walked back out the door, noticing a rather disquieting absence of the small noises I had noticed before. the lights were off when I took my gaze off of the grating, noticing the quiet crimson liquid, swirling below it. I walked back outside, pulled my coat tighter and my muffler more completely around my face. The glass I had taken, the hill I climbed, the shufflers shuffling, stroking their fingers across my coat as I passed. I returned to my abode, then to my desk. I slowly, smoothly unscrewed the top of the glass. I lifted the lid, placed it upon my desk, and drank, not giving my eyes time to see the substance.
Red, berry-like foam trickled down my face, to my chest, and I spat out a inch-long white object from the midst of the glass, strangely, it felt like blueberries, a milkshake, but not quite, like rotted tulips, like boiled cheese, a strange feeling. I looked, and saw, the last drop at the bottom of the glass,
and it was green.
An inchworm, struggling for life, and died.
I picked up and dropped the glass beside me, and it clanked, and rolled, and somehow, somehow, a long boy's hand from the corner of my eye, almost unseeable, picked it up, and shuffled past my desk, around the corner. A grinding. A grinding. And a pouring. And then silence.