It Eats Itself by Russ Bickerstaff

It Eats Itself by Russ Bickerstaff
The food eats itself. When no one’s working. When no one‘s paying attention to it. The food is kind of self-conscious about everything. So it starts eating itself. It’s hard to quantify. It’s hard to tell what happens. Because you’re not really paying attention to it. And it’s not necessarily paying attention to you either. The kind of wrong for this sort of thing to happen while anyone was actually aware of it. The food isn’t necessarily aware of it. And certainly we aren’t. Otherwise, it would be a problem to begin with. Just sort of thing that happens is all. It’s just that sort of thing that happens when they went to looking.
When the food to eat itself, it’s not really paying attention. But when the food is in self, we’re not paying attention either. There’s a lack of awareness. No one’s really measuring anything. But certainly it’s happening. There’s no question that is happening. Portion sizes are getting smaller and that sort of thing. But that really has more to do with nervousness than it does the economy. Or maybe it’s the nervousness of the economy. Everything so uncertain that everything seems to be eaten. And everything seems to be eating. Including the food. The food is eating itself. That’s what I’m saying.
And happen to notice that on the dinner table. Not consciously, of course. But I’m sort of notice to be not noticing it. But I don’t know exactly how it was that I wasn’t paying attention well enough to be able actually pick up on it. That’s another thing. When you’re not actually paying attention to the fact that you’re not actually paying attention, you can sort of catch yourself not seeing what you’re not saying. And even though you’re not actually consciously processing what it is that you’re saying you know that you’re saying what you’re saying. On that particular moment, I just happened to be saying to eat the food eat itself.
It tries to be as polite about it as possible. And tries to be in a position where it’s going to be doing show surreptitiously. Doesn’t want anyone to pay attention to the fact that it’s doing what it’s doing. And if people were paying attention to the fact that I was doing what it was doing that I wouldn’t need to do it in the first place. Certainly, it wouldn’t be doing it in the first place. Kind of a strange sort of a situation. Kind of a strange sort of a sensation to see the food eat itself, even though I wasn’t really conscious of the fact that I was doing it at the time.
I was just precisely unaware enough of my unawareness of the situation to be able to pay attention to the fact that I didn’t know what it was it was necessarily going on. But I was unaware of my own unawareness with enough strength to be able to notice that the food was feeling kind of sorry for itself. Just sitting there on the table without actually doing anything. So it felt the need to control itself. And the only way that we can really console itself by consuming itself. Itself.
I felt sorry for it. But not actually sorry enough to want to eat it. I mean, it was clearly having a moment with itself. And I didn’t want to interrupt that. And, of course, there was the fact that if I was to do so I would be snapping out of my lack of consciousness of the situation, and I would actually be actively doing something and what it happened between thoughts, and what had happened between awareness is with suddenly completely vanished. I would completely lose sight of what it was, it was not actually happening, but felt as though it was even though it absolutely was because there’s no way it couldn’t of happened.
And I just felt really sympathetic towards the food. Feeling the need to eat itself like that. Because it was just there. Because it was just doing what it was doing. Being food. On a dinner table. But not actually being eaten. Just hanging out there. And feeling kind of lonely. And feeling kind of cold. And feeling as though maybe it’s not actually living up to its true purpose as food. So maybe it just sort of decides to eat itself. Not a whole lot. It’s not like picking out on itself or anything like that. It’s just Taking a few nibbles here and there. Nervously. Waiting for whatever it is that’s going to happen. Which is most likely the inevitable it’s the inevitable that we all feel.
It’s the inevitable that we’re all going to have to deal with in one way or another. I may be on some level we’re all food on a dinner table eating itself. Certainly it feels as though that might be the case. But maybe I’m reaching too far for meaning in a subconscious moment that doesn’t really mean Anything and doesn’t really need to. Certainly it feels as though that may be the case. Though I really don’t know. I am just kind of exhausted about the whole thing. It was a deeply moving moment between myself, and the food that was eating itself. But I didn’t really know how to handle it.
I didn’t really know what to do about it. I’m fairly certain that I didn’t actually do anything about it. I just felt as though maybe I should. Actually, take some conscious awareness of it. Or at least consciousness enough to be able to feel something like 1000 words of prose with it. After which I could just sort of relax, and maybe go to bed on this particular Thursday night. After all, there may not have been work the next day. But there may not have had to work then work the next day. Until it was only a matter of time.
* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Russ Bickerstaff 2025
What an odd slice of fiction.. Use of the occasional 4-dolllar word ( surreptitiously) and serious concepts (self-conscious, consciousness, awarness) leades me to believe that this writer was not grammatically challenged and the text at first indicates. I am a regular reader of Synchronized Chaos Magazine, which frequently publishes stories by ESL writers, but I don’t belieive this to be the case. Rather, it is a sort of “primitivism” style of writing, indicating a putative simple mind or youth or something. There were some prescient points made, amidst all the nonsense. Looking forward to more of your — perhaps more conventional — worrk.