Monday, January 12, 2015

Moist Towelettes

There is something obscene about Moist Towelettes. The way they quiver when held, the faint chemical smell of lemon that wafts from their folds when unfurled. An open Moist Towelette diaphanous like a square of rotting flesh held before a lamp. That something so damp and easily torn dwells inside that hard little square of waterproof plastic packaging.

Moist Towelettes are horrific: Moist Towlettes too-wet and oozing in a clenched fist; crumpled and smeared with barbecue sauce and assorted condiments; strewn like snake moltings in grass overgrown. Moist Towlettes disintegrating into dust long after their one-time use in Post-Apocalyptia, coveted by those survivors who sustain themselves by finger-scooping baked beans out of tin cans torn open with pickaxes and pliers.

They travel through time and space like astronauts tucked into rocket ship. Safe against all probability, their fragility concealed. Hurtling through emptiness until the hull is ripped apart, dumb fleshy tentacles reaching in. Exposed to air, worthless the moment they're used.