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his hands infected the pure and fresh spaghetti. He grasped another handful and threw it at the wall. Impure! Slom was moving now. “Jom?” He took another bite. Spaghetti fell from his mouth. He had soiled it by touching it. It was great, but it wasn’t the same. He grunted and threw more spaghetti at the wall. Slom was beside him now, her hand on his shoulder. He thrust his face into the closet and the spaghetti stung his eyes and coated his nostrils again. He bit and he bit. It was better, but still not the same. “If you’re this hungry, why don’t you just go into the closet?” He looked at her. She would not, could not understand this spaghetti. It wasn’t hunger he was feeling. This was life in front of them. Pure life. The spaghetti was alive and he wasn’t. The spaghetti could be and he couldn’t. But she was right. He did have to go into the closet. It was inevitable. Nothing to be done about it. He stepped in, barefoot, impure, sweating. She closed the door and a horrible smell wafted through the stale air. It wasn’t the spaghetti of course; it was him. What a despicable creature he was! Oozing sweat, digesting what he loved. He could never become. He could only destroy. Break down. Digest digest digest. He scratched the walls and the oak peeled off and burrowed into his fingernails and he tore his mouth to the left and ripped the spaghetti and he bit and he ate and he consumed and he could not become. He shoved his head below his neck and buckled his knees and ate more. He pulled spaghetti with both his awful hands from both sides of him out of the pile and into his mouth. It was dark in there. There was nothing but him and the spaghetti. And still he was not alive. Surrounded by, covered in pure life and still he could not become it. There was nothing to be done. Nothing to be gained. He pounded on the closet door. Three times, then four. “Slom!” he said. “Thou shalt not!” He was shrieking. He pounded ten times. His arm felt wet with a non-marinara texture. He held it to his face. The smell of iron. He pounded with his other arm. “Slom!” There was no answer. “And thou shalt not thou shalt not thou shalt not thou shalt not thou shalt not thou shalt not thou shalt not thou shalt not thou shalt not thou shalt not thou shalt not…” He was bleeding onto the spaghetti. Ruining it. There was nothing to be done. He was not alone, but the spaghetti was. He cried out. “I’m sorry. I didn’t ask for this.” There was no answer. “There’s nothing here.” There was no answer. “There is nothing to be done.” No answer. “I want to be something.” 42  Julian Fernandez

Profile for Hofstra University

Windmill - December 2016  

The Hofstra Journal of Literature and Art

Windmill - December 2016  

The Hofstra Journal of Literature and Art

Profile for hofstra