Long ago I wrote a series of warped little short stories, jotting them down on napkins or margins of my school notes or the backs of register receipts whenever life was dishing out more than I could handle within the fragile boundaries of sanity. Tonight I ran across the file. Below is a sampling.
Once upon a time there was a little bunny rabbit who ran out in the road and got squashed. The End.
Once upon a time there lived a tiny flea, and when time fell back because of Daylight Savings time the flea fell into the void. The End.
Once upon a time there lived a very tiny shrew who wanted to grow up to be an elephant. This shrew was so small that even the other shrews called him names and often stepped on him because they did not notice him. One day while our shrew was out practicing snorting water up his nose and getting migraines, a giant mosquito flew by and drained his entire body of every last drop of tiny shrew blood that it contained. The amount of blood was so insignificant that the mosquito didn't even burp. Now the tiny shrew was a shrew ghost, and as we all know, ghosts can't be defined by physical mass or volume, so now the shrew-ghost expanded its spiritual molecule equivalents, shaped itself like a shrew-ghost-elephant, and suddenly materialized around the mosquito, who, upon finding itself in the center of a materialized mass of shrew-ghost-elephant, promptly had what passes among mosquitos for a heart-attack and spiralled through the air to the earth below, quite dead. The End. Moral: Sometimes it's ok to burp.
Once upon a time there were three little pigs and the first one built his house out of straw and the second one built his house from sticks and they went to play in the woods after stopping by to see their brother who couldn't play, 'cause he was building his house out of bricks so they made fun of him and went to play and the big bad wolf huffed and puffed their houses down, but they weren't there, so he went to the third little pig's house and climbed down the chimney and since the second little pig had used all the sticks, the third little pig couldn't build a fire so the wolf ate him raw and barfed afterward. The End. Moral: Use all the sticks so the wolf will eat your brother.
Looking back on these literary gems, one begins to understand why my mother insisted my father either buy me a cat or pay for a therapist.
I loved that cat.