Crop Dusters and Their Effects on Limbs
| A crop-dusting plane sits in my living room talking to my arms. “I have a secret,” the plane whispers to my arms. My arms cannot speak so they lie there, attached to my upper torso. Silent. “Don’t you want to know what it is?” the plane asks. My arms and I sit there. I am looking at the plane stealing glances out the window. It stares at my arms and I start to feel uncomfortable. “Fine,” the plane says. It tries to fold its wings like you fold your arms but cannot bend the steel. I listen to its straining and my arms casually fold themselves. The plane sees this. “Screw you,” it says. “You aren’t better than me.” It farts a chemical mist out of the backside of its wings. “Don’t you wish you knew what the hell that is?” the plane asks my arms. My arms remain still and silent. The plane positions itself so that the hoses where the mist comes from are pointed toward my arms. “Ask me what it is,” the plane says to my arms. My arms are, of course, silent. “Ask me!” it screams. We sit in silence for a few minutes. “Remember,” the plane finally says, “this was your decision.” It farts billows of the steam onto my arms and covers my body. I stand up and my legs kick the plane, denting its side. But the plane is laughing. My skin starts burning. I wash the coating of mist off in the kitchen sink but that just makes it worse. The skin on my arms bubbles and little pustules form and pop on my forearm. The plane is still laughing and the burning hasn’t stopped. |
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