Ode to the Stove Crevasse
What terror lurks hidden between the stove and the neighboring cabinet?
Crumbs? Most likely.
Resident insects which we'd sooner like to forget? Possibly.
Or is it something more devious? . . . Who's to say?
Try to recall what you've swept into that black void over time. It is most certainly a combination of culinary refuse along with the chemicals used to clean it. A graveyard of exoskeletons: insects which ventured but never returned. But why? Why does nothing emerge from that void?
Perhaps an evolutionary experiment carries on among the carrion. Something evolves down there. It grows. And it's omnivorous appetite is endless. Every niblet of disregarded corn and each stray dehydrated noodle serves to nourish and satisfy the mysterious depth's hunger. The same fate awaits every splatter of marinara and drop of poultry drippings. As well, each and every rolled oat, rounded pea, and roasted peanut all stand to feed the anathema in the dark.
But it's never enough . . .
Brush whatever substance you desire into it's gaping mouth. It is insatiable. Do you think that's the floor creaking when you walk by your stove? Think again. Someone, or something, is hungry. . .