Short Story: A Jar of Fleas

 by Demi Armstrong

What warm and floral air flows into my still space? I didn't recognise my breath as cold until I felt warmth. Should my feet not be moulded to a sterile surface, shouldn't they ache and blister at the ridges of my soles? Is this complex living and breathing wall an intruder? Why isn't it like the rest: concrete? Shouldn’t this wall be solid rather than this tasteless, odourless, non-wall? Could I pass my hand through it? Could I step through it?

10100 out of position. No assistance is required. 

This living surface moulds to my feet, it is soft and bright and has green spikes that aren’t spiked at all. This non-wall is vast and infinite and holds its dependents. Flying images of the colours I knew only fruit to own. This ceiling has no end, instead, there’s a light that is not encased within the glass but shimmering and ethereal and so beautiful that it makes my eyes burn.

If you put fleas into a jar when they jump they’ll hit the lid and fall. They’ll condition themselves to jump below the lid. They’ll never jump above this height even if the lid is removed. 

This non-wall holds cries, disrespectful noises, noises of resistance, and noises that only lead to pain. Where are the guards of this non-wall space? These dependents don’t know what is expected of them, they don’t know their place.

They’ll never know freedom.