This is a collection of some tidbits I’ve written in the past. I didn’t think they’d work as standalone blog posts, but I wanted to share them. So, here you have it. Enjoy.
I saw a box on the side of the road. So, naturally I stopped to check it out, assuming it contained a muffin. I looked inside, saw no muffin. But I’m sure there was one. It was probably just invisible. “Can you hear me, muffin?” I asked. It didn’t reply, but that’s probably because I’m ill-equipped to hear a muffin. I’m sure it heard me, though. After all, it’s in the box and I was plenty loud. I asked the muffin if it could help me get a promotion at work. Instead, I was fired the next day. It was probably part of the muffin’s plan, though. I mean, if the muffin wanted to, it could surely give me a promotion. But the muffin obviously wanted me to lose that job so I could do something else with my time. Maybe I should spend all my newfound free time worshiping the muffin. After all, an invisible muffin is pretty awesome, not only that, but it’s a real invisible muffin, not like the one you claim to have found in a barrel. Muffin’s don’t live in barrels, silly.
And you call it a cupcake, what’s up with that?
I could see as she was holding the knife that it was my own blood dripping from it. Though I could not feel the pain of the mortal wound, I could sense the void of the gaping hole in my lower abdomen. It wouldn’t be long now.
I felt every moment of those few seconds for life to leave my body, for my brain to shut down, never to process information again. Each one contained a trillion opportunities for formulating a final thought. While my body quickly drained of its blood and stumbled slowly onto the linoleum floor, my brain raced with activity, anxious to get the most out of the time left.
My mind debated with itself over what thoughts should grace my consciousness before it faded into nothingness. My memory wanted to reminisce in the nostalgic glow of pleasures past. That was quickly pushed aside by an attempt to conjure up the ideal philosophical thought for a most poignant final moment of life.
Outside the turmoil within my skull was a calmness to my death. My body did not struggle to make sense of the situation, nor did it fight with itself over how to handle it. It simply allowed death to be. It lay peacefully on the cold floor, wet with its own blood, and relaxed. The eyes, though open and seemingly aware, were quiet and accepting, like the eyes of a new mother looking on the life she had just created.
Behind those eyes, I ran mad. The pressure of time was felt like never before, and it was a violent race around the catacombs of my brain to find a suitable thought, anything that could bring nobility to my dying instant.
In all the frantic searching of my mental forest, I managed to find one fully-formed cognition before relinquishing control: Why?
A little caterpillar was talking to an old, fat and wise caterpillar one day.
“Mister,” he said to the elder, “Why are you not a butterfly?”
“Why should I be?”
“Because caterpillars are supposed to change into one when they grow up.”
“Why? What’s wrong with being a caterpillar?”
“Well, don’t you want to fly, mister?”
“I don’t need to fly. Look at birds; they fly, and they eat caterpillars.”
“But don’t you get tired of climbing up plants?”
“Ants have to live underground, digging tunnels all day in the cold dirty ground. I think I have it a lot better than they do.”
“Butterflies are beautiful, though. Don’t you want that for yourself?”
“This is the body God gave me. There’s nothing I can do about it.”
And so the little caterpillar was convinced that being a butterfly is overrated. He came to realize that being a caterpillar was good enough, that it was certainly better than being an ant. And he didn’t want to be like those evil birds, so flying wasn’t something to be proud of. Besides, God gave him the chubby little body of a caterpillar and what could he do about that? Who was he to question it? Thus the little caterpillar remained a caterpillar and lived a long, fulfilling life eating leaves and pooping silk.
I was heading into work, late as usual. The secretary greeted me, “Hi. How are you?”
“Fine,” I said and continued down the hallway.
“Hey,” Karl called to me, “How are you doing?”
“Fine,” I said and continued down the hallway.
Hannah, the office slut, was walking toward me. “Hey there,” she said, smiling, her large white teeth making the perfect backdrop for those supple red lips. “How are you?”
“I’m fine,” I said and continued down the hallway.
Finally, I arrived at my desk and took my seat.
“Hey,” a voice called from the doorway. I turned to see Wilhelm. “How are you today?” he asked.
“Fine,” I said and he continued on his way.
My office was silent, and I had it all to myself. The typewriter was all mine. The radio, all mine. The stack of work to be done, all mine.
I picked up the top paper from the stack and looked over the candidate. Karen Wolf.
Leaving my office, with the file in hand, I walked out the back door.
A guard greeted me. “How are you, sir?”
“Fine,” I said and continued down the path.
I looked at the file. Building D, it read. I walked over to the large shed at the end of the complex and went inside.
And there was Karen, separated out from the rest of the prisoners, chained to a post in the middle of the building. Her knees were sunk deep into the urine-soaked mud.
I put my gun to her head and asked, “How are you?”
“Fine,” she said, and I pulled the trigger.