Everyone Is Thinking

The mechanics of production elude me. We make things, that’s what we do, people. Some of us make cat litter or babies or knives. Some make Thighmasters. Some people make wars, but those that do are not very good at it, at least I don’t think they are. Without fail, the Army shows up on my front door step asking for canned goods, which I bought and will probably never eat because they just ask for the stuff I don’t want, like creamed corn and green beans. Also, they ring the doorbell every damn time I’m trying to watch The Simpsons reruns and you would think, being the Army and all, they would know The Simpsons are on. And for how long shall I be expected to support the troops? They are grown men, with government jobs to boot! Who is in charge of this operation, the president? Who could be so out of touch with the common American? But I may not be very good at making wars either. I have never tried to invade a sovereign nation or pick fights with fuming dictators. I have only made problems within my family, watching my relatives divide like crystal formations, shoots of angry hard matter. Ambient temperatures determine the size of the fact or density of the crystallization or magnitude of the explosion. Prior convictions determine length of the incarceration. But beyond pressurized family matters, creation evades me. For example, how does one go about “producing” a banana? I suppose you would need parts of the banana, like the peel and the banana meat. And then you would have to stick them together somehow, without any fingerprints, and seal it shut from the inside. It would be easier to just pull one from your trouser pocket but then you would be considered both corner-cutter and pervert. Oh, there’s lot of other things too, I think, that go into the production of some thing or other. Like producers have to be tall, so they can see what everyone is thinking and can make something new or improved, or taller. They also must have lots of cupboard space for all that stuff: not only the things they make but the things they use to make the things they make have to be stored somewhere. Ratchet sets and hat racks and various glues and banana makers don’t just put themselves to bed, you know.

- Emily Renaud

Elephant Eggs

Intestinal elephants are all the rage. I bought mine at the CVS down the street–it’s a knock off. Once the egg was swallowed, gestation took about 4 months. Fully grown, I imagine Stompy from trunk to tail to be the length from the tip of my thumb down to the first knuckle. Sometimes at night, while my cat Violet lies resting on my chest, we listen to Stompy wade through the swampy lands of my stomach, or I feel the tickle of his struggle through dense intestinal thicket of lettuce branches yet to be broken down. Violet will often claw at my stomach, wanting to hunt or play with Stompy, her spine hair flanked, her eyes wild and sharp. But I just roll onto my side and she jumps off in search of other prey. Stompy is safe in there, in my gut, and maybe lonely I think, because sometimes I am awoken by the sound of him trumpeting at four a.m., sloshing through stomach acid awaiting a response to his grey wails. But the neighborhood elephants are all asleep and too far away, even his foot stomp vibrations go unreturned, other than the Tums that get swallowed. Perhaps I will ingest another egg, a friend for Stompy, but the experts advise against this. If they mate I could explode with a tribe of tiny elephants marching out of my pasty, bloated carcass. How’s that during Valentine’s night dinner? Who wants to see that while opening presents Christmas morning? And who would support such a family, what with my lifeless body heaved prostrate over the back of the lay-z-boy to make room for dessert? No, Stompy is well-fed and has plenty of room to move. It must take him ages to roam all the way from my esophagus down to my duodenum. What an adventure, what sights he must see! When he is restless and wants attention, he tickles my throat with his trunk. When I am restless and want entertainment I swallow whole live crickets for Stompy to wrestle, but they only live down there for a short while, poor creatures, the environment too harsh to bear, his aggression too misunderstood to battle successfully.

- Emily Renaud

Perspective is a Real Bitch

Pictured below is a box

It is poorly rendered, but I think we can all agree that it is a box, or that it represents the idea of a box. Correct?

Then let us assume we all agree. The thing is a box, and it probably contains something.

Boxes that contain “nothing” probably contain “something.” The argument is easy to make.

Air is something; absence is something; nothing is something; something is something. It is all so confusing. Let’s continue.

You are inside this box. You are wearing odd clothes—whatever feels odd to you, I wouldn’t be so presumptuous to decide!—and you are hopelessly in love with me.

You are hopelessly in love with me, but I am behind the box, and perspective does not afford you a good view of me. Perspective is a real bitch.

You want so badly to see me, you can hardly contain yourself.

– Jono Tosch