The light bulb in the refrigerator flickered like the damaged eye of a drunken cyclops, casting spasmodic shadows across the spit-stained linoleum of Apartment 42B. Yebash Zedonkin (no relation to the famous Zedonkins of Lower East Side), swaying slightly, stood before the open door, his greasy robe hanging from his shoulders like the hide of a dead animal, while in his hand, as if an extension of his limb, dangled an almost empty bottle.
From the depths of the refrigerator erupted a stench that would make Diogenes reconsider his choice of living quarters. Yebash's face contorted into a grimace, his nose wrinkling like a prune left out in the sun.
On the top shelf, in a puddle of something that might once have been yogurt but now more closely resembled radioactive snot, floated a jar of mayonnaise. Its surface was covered with a film the color of frog vomit. Yebash's eyes widened, his pupils dilating as if trying to escape the horror before them. His free hand involuntarily rose to cover his mouth.
Next to the mayonnaise, like the remains of a shipwrecked vessel, lay a bag of bread. Each slice had transformed into a breeding ground for mold in all shades of bad ideas - from toxic green to the color of stale hangover. Yebash's stomach performed a gymnastics routine.
As his gaze fell upon an open can of unidentifiable sludge, Yebash's face paled to a shade that would have made a ghost look tan. The contents of the can seemed to move of their own accord, as if a new life form, hostile to humanity, was being born there. His left eye developed a twitch, keeping time with the flickering refrigerator light.
In the vegetable drawer, something was happening. Shriveled carrots, resembling the fingers of a drowned man, floated in a slurry that may once have been tomatoes but now looked like the liquefied innards of some prehistoric monster. Yebash's throat constricted, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down like a yo-yo as he fought the urge to retch.
On the refrigerator door, like a reminder of the futility of existence, hung a carton of eggs. Each egg, judging by the smell, had turned into a miniature chemical bomb. As the odor hit him, Yebash's eyes watered so profusely it looked like he was auditioning for the role of Niagara Falls. His free hand flailed wildly, as if trying to swat away the atrocious smell.
But the strangest thing Yebash noticed was in the depths of the bottom shelf. At first, he took it for a particularly vigorous collection of mold, but the longer he looked, the more horrifying this formation appeared. Yebash's jaw dropped so low it was in danger of unhinging, his eyes bulging like a cartoon character who'd just seen a ghost. He blinked rapidly, his eyelids fluttering like a hummingbird's wings, but the vision remained.
In the depths of this biomass, the features of a face were emerging. Yes, a real human face, as if molded from living, pulsating matter. Yebash's complexion cycled through colors faster than a chameleon in a disco, finally settling on a sickly green that clashed horribly with his bloodshot eyes.
"Mona fucking Lisa," he breathed, his voice a mixture of awe and terror.
Suddenly, the lips of this incredible creation quivered. Yebash froze, his body going as rigid as if he'd been struck by lightning. A voice, reminiscent of the sound a particularly putrid blister makes when it pops, whispered:
"Dude... we're out of beer."
Yebash, having seen plenty of strange things in his day (for when you've seen the bottom of as many bottles as he had, reality becomes a rather flexible concept), simply nodded and closed the fridge.
This story was written for the Soaring Twenties Social Club (STSC) Symposium. The STSC is a small, exclusive online speakeasy where a dauntless band of raconteurs, writers, artists, philosophers, flaneurs, musicians, idlers, and bohemians share ideas and companionship. Each month STSC members create something around a set theme. This cycle, the theme was “Growth / How to grow your…”
If you are a writer, you might consider joining us.