You belittle me.
You tell me I’m worthless.
You tell me not to try.
You tell me there's no point.
You tell me there’s nothing but failure.
You don't let me see light.
You scream until nothing else can be heard.
You tease until I’m frayed to bits.
You are in my head.
You will never leave.
But I don't have to listen.
You belittle me.
Ham Man fumbled for the object on the ground. He knew he dropped something, but his pink hands grasped at nothing. His eyes half closed, he continued to reach. Leaning back for a breath of air, he then lunged forward again. No luck grabbing the item. It was there. He knew it. Ham Man had a thing. Now he no longer had a thing. But what could he do without the thing?
Ham Man closed his eyes. An eternity passed. It was about sixty seven seconds long. He opened his eyes. The thing! He must get the thing! He reached down again but the thing was not where his hands were. Ham Man smelled the air. He smelled of ham. But the thing was not ham. He was the source of the ham smell. But what was the thing?
The train conductor steps over Ham Man’s umbrella as he walks by. Ham Man sees this. Umbrella! The word comes to his lips. He lunges. Umbrella is now in hand. Ham Man was successful. Now for sleep. Ham Man will sleep.
The missing chapter.
And so the story goes.
A new beginning of an old ending.
Much explosion about nothing.
Seventeen (A realization)
Sadness had been pick pocketed. No wallet meant no money. No money meant no hand wipes. No hand wipes meant no beating Vulvacia today. This made her sad, which as we have already established is not necessarily what Sadness wants.
Then Sadness exploded.
Deus Ex Machina
The Writing on the Digital
Deus Ex Machina!?
The reasoning for the seasoning.
An exploded man buys no ham
Salting the Sauce
The eighth chapter was deleted for pride.
(Now the numbering scheme is back on track.)
Fifth (Technically the Sixth chapter.)
Fourth (Also known as: The correct spelling in this case.)
Forth (A chapter about fears.)
Boston looked into the oven and saw the salmon-beard salmon cooking at a fine temperature. He loved how Vulvacia pronounced the “L” in salmon, even though it was completely unnecessary. It was one of her charms. Although it was a bit silly, he would not dare correct her for both love and honor. What good would correcting her do? Embarrass her? Does that ever fix anything in a good and honest way? She would figure it out on her own. Or maybe she was doing it to entice him, as he did love the letter “L” so very much. Wiping his mouth, he stood up and looked around the kitchen.
Mostly pale green, the kitchen reminded Boston of his youth on the planet Lotsofgreenthingsmostlyleaves. He loved it there, but there was not much of a market for a pieman when most of a planet’s inhabitants are pleased as punch to lick leaves until they pass out under the hot, hot sun. Being allergic to leaves made his childhood rough, ticklish and swollen. But he still loved Lotsofgreenthingsmostlyleaves and would write long letters to his mother every week. She did not read them, of course, as she was too busy licking leaves. Boston knew that. He did not care. He did it for honor, and nothing more.
With the salmon-beard cooking away, Boston began to clean up the pie dishes that had been left over from his short meal with Vulvacia. His tears had long since gone away, stored in a tiny vial to help with his banana cream pie cooking. He was unsure of what any of this meant. Why did Vulvacia have to constantly be on the move? Was there any such reason that any of the other Warriors Riding On Normal Grounds would not be able to take a case once in a while? Did she not deserve a break? Could Boston do anything else but ask himself questions?
Of course, he could be brave. Yes. Indeed. Boston had nothing to fear because Vulvacia always won. She was the heroine of this story, was she not? Of course, she would probably face a trouble that would be finalized in the climax. Or even a cliffhanger if the author was hoping to turn this into a series. Yes, boston had nothing to worry about. And he was proud of his subtle foreshadowing technique. He is winking at you now, reader.
There was a faint ding. The salmon was done. And so was Boston’s fear. His next meal would taste of finely minced fear. And salmon.