Imagination, My Emancipation

The Pineapple Pizza Riots

Jackson knew that pineapple didn't belong on pizza. With every bite, he felt a grimace churn his insides out, but this was an emotional catharsis of sorts. His friend, Martin, loved pineapple on pizza. It was August 28, 1999. Two weeks had passed since Jackson had paid his respects to Martin, who was like a brother to him, to everyone. While his friend was dead, Jackson was sat in a diner in California, eating pineapple on pizza.

Jackson was writing many things, something, anything in the hard black journal of his. He needed an escape, and he was no stranger to the idea. Why else would he be in a diner, with so many of his friends? But such an escape felt like hell. The devilish delight of the drinks that slithered from table to table. The sweet shine of the drugs that secretly scattered. The sexual advances, trading about with no subtlety. Everyone hid their sorrows with such things, but Jackson wanted something more permanent. Nothing separated him from the other people in the diner. They were all comforting themselves to sleep, forgotten forever and never.

All around him, the sounds of the diner had been screaming into his skull and the bright neon lights held his eyes back. All night he had been staring blankly at his drink, half empty. All night he had been chewing away at his pencil, almost as if it were a cigarette with some inspiration hidden within. Nothing came. All he had was pizza.

Time stopped.

The world around Jackson became dreary. Floating before him, his half-eaten slice of pineapple pizza was staring at him with a set of googly eyes. They both looked at each other blankly. Then the pizza winked at him.

Jackson sighed. 'They don't care, pizza.'

'Leave them behind. Leave me behind. Also, eat me,' said the pizza.

'You hearing yourself?' asked Jackson.

'Are you hearing yourself?' the pizza asked.

'You want me to leave you, but also eat you? You need to hear yourself,' said Jackson.

'Leave behind what isn't you. Eat what is you,' said the pizza.

'I will eat what I want to.'

'Exactly, so eat me.'

Jackson smacked the pizza.

Time started again.

He took a sip of his drink, half empty. He had gone on a trip to a strange realm, but wherever he went, it made him write some words onto his black journal.

I got weed,

and I got whiskey,

half empty.

But that isn't me.

This is where I belong,

in my passions, singing songs.

There is happiness around me,

but that is destined to fail eventually,

for it is all temporary.

They don't care, pizza.

I miss you, but I gotta move on.

People were drinking, people were smoking and people were mingling, but nobody was feeling. It made Jackson open his eyes properly. Something had spoken to him, and it was so beautiful and true for him that he rose from his seat. It had only been two weeks since Martin had been shot down in the middle of the night. But here they all were...partying? How could they forget Martin like that?

He shook his head. He wanted more. He could be so much more. Leaving the diner for good, something caught his arm. With her face buried in a glass, half empty, a girl gave him a silly wink.