Short stories and collage work from inside your everyday home.

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My everyday home.

Staring blankly into the kitchen cupboards. He has risen from his bed in the room adjacent, hoping some undefinable delicacy has inched its way to the front of the cabinets. Turning defeated he shuffles back into his den of relaxation for a few more minutes. This event repeats itself several more times over the course of an hour. Each occurrence resulting in defeat.

Cravings begin to overwhelm him as he lays turning in his bed. The previously engaging Netflix series has lost its ability to distract from the real problem at hand. With frustration and intensity the man rises up, in one final attempt to solve the pressing matter of his hunger.

He stands there again looking upon a myriad of options, none of which will do. His eyes shift up and down, back and forth, along the surface of the cabinet. Scanning it for anything that may have been missed previously, with an audible sigh he reaches forward to open the glass encasement and retrieve a second rate treat.

As he grasps the delicate handle and pulls the cupboard door towards him, he is met with resistance. Tugging more and more vigorously, he begins to utilize all the frustrations of his gastronomic defeat. With a clap the door unlatches and the man stumbles backwards.

The entire cabinet begins to slowly unfurl itself in front of him. The doors smoothly swing downward towards him, like a hand steadily becoming unclenched. As the hatches reach out toward the man, the shelves there within slide back into a space previously unknown, taking the snack with which he intended to settle deep out of sight. The shelves of china reach themselves out to him, granting a single entry into his new cupboard room. With hesitance the man climbs inside and works his way into the dimly lit space.

Enamored by the events that have just transpired, he forgets the hunger that has plagued him this past hour. He crawls onwards passing pots, pans, glassware, and dust on his journey. In the distance he sees the warm glow of food packaging. Hastening his pace he arrives to the new space of his hunger. Gliding around him in an oddly orchestrated tornado of wood, hardware, and food are all the things deemed formerly unfit.

Bags of pretzels collide with jars of peanut butter, Mac and Cheese powder explodes overhead, Raisins roll into neat piles by his hands and feet. Amidst the display he grabs whatever he can and inches his way back through the alley of stainless steel and dust and onto the swinging china.

Stepping down into his home he gazes once again onto his kitchen cupboards as they contort themselves back into regularity.

He returns, food in hand, to futon and a sitcom.

Strutting down his hall way, umteen times a day, he passes a mirror pinched to his wall by several clear clips. Its trim is of white plastic and its bottom left hand corner has fallen victim to fog. Regardless of how many times he has passed said mirror, he cannot leave it be. Either his pace will slow down as he glances over his shoulder to see himself gliding through space; or he will bring himself to a full stop so as to gaze on as he twists his body and fluffs his hair.

Day or night, clothed or naked, proud or shameful, it does not matter. His eyes must always gaze upon it and subsequently himself. His vanity is fed by the placement of this mirror and his concerns with self image grow more prominent everyday.

The mirror knows it is merely a vessel of self absorption and grows ashamed of its role in his psyche. Unable to change itself the mirror, requests the assistance of the home upon which it lives. Feeling an obligation to its dweller and pity for the mirror, the home agrees to help.

Days pass and the man strolls by the mirror continually looking into it for a reflection of self. With each passing day however the mirror begins to slip back into the walls of the house. Deeper and deeper, so as to escape the man’s vision.

After several days the man passes through the short hallway that leads from his living space to his kitchen, he turns his head in his typical way towards the mirror but finds no mirror there. In its wake is a thin cavern of wood, insulation, and cobwebs. Deep within it he can see the glimmer of the mirror as it reflects back a thin shred of light from the hallway.

Astonished by this new condition and quite peeved by the brutal tear in his wall the man ventures to the back of the crevasse to investigate this new space. Turning sideways he sucks in his stomach and begins to shuffle back. Grey pink fiberglass fluff, poofs around his mouth and eyes and old nails tear his shirt as he slinks deeper into the cavern of his home.

Reaching the end he sees the old mirror, absorbed into the long untouched makings of his walls. Angrily he pulls the mirror from its tomb and precedes back out of the cavern. Once outside he dusts himself off and checks his appearance in the mirror.

Unaware of how to fix such a large crack in his wall and too tentative to tell his landlord the man allows the cavern to remain. He simply hangs the mirror across its span. He looks at the mirror everyday as before and now also a scar.

Placing a cutting board upon the countertop, he flips a bag of onions onto it. Next to this pile of onions is some broccoli, a few potatoes, 2 cloves of garlic, and three sausages. Taking a large kitchen knife he begins to peel, dice, and chop the ingredients. 5 feet to his right water boils on a stove and a pan slowly heats up, liquefying a pat of butter there within it.

The sink lets out an endless stream of water as he discards the things unfit to make this meal down its piping. Onion and Potato skins, the nub at the bottom of broccoli, sausage casings, and the fibrous outer layer of the garlic. All these things slide down into the abyss of his home’s inner plumbing.

This activity of feeding the drain happens every few days pending his financial ability to eat out and or his interest in preparing a meal. Gallon upon gallon of water slips into the abyss alongside pounds of organic waste.

He thanks the heavens everyday that he has not had a clog but continues to tempt fate. Months pass and spring arrives.

Parading around the home in his briefs, celebrating the warm weather; he is called to the kitchen by his roommate to inspect something suspicious. A small mushroom pokes itself up from a slit in the countertop. Perplexed he plucks it up and throws it in the garbage.

The next day he inspects the location again only to find two fungi in its place. Removing them both and depositing windex into the slight crevice, he hopes the issue is resolved. For 8 more days nothing emerges and so he decides to prepare himself a meal in the formerly affected area.

Cutting and mashing another similar group of ingredients he feels his counter flex and bow beneath his touch. Curious he pushes down with great force upon the flat surface. His hands break through and he falls back pulling with him his entire kitchen counter.

It tears away from the wall with the consistency of damp paper. Spilling the innards of his kitchen out onto the floor, and revealing the hidden world beneath. Rich Black soil rolls out onto the linoleum, large mushrooms of red, orange, and purple burst forward, and water mists the air.

He gazes into the dark to see a system of miniature aqueducts, zigging and zagging beneath his counter. Spanning small valleys, and distributing water and compost to various locations throughout the kitchen.

Reaching deep into the dark and through the water channels he plucks two mushrooms. Standing up he dices them and throws them in a pan for his dinner.