He was happily suffering there. Behind the bars. He had hailstorms in his eyes and a noose around his fingers. 
     “Do you think they’ll make a TV show about my struggle?”
     He asked his only visitor, Didgeridoo, a fan of his writing that flew all the way from Mississippi to ask him the meaning of the typo in his novel.
     Didgeridoo refused to believe it. He muttered on about how the misprint affected his life. He spoke of the trip into the forest he took, accompanied by stale mushrooms. He explained how he understood his purpose in life.
     “I am a tree,” he said, “you are the forest. You harbor me; you hold me in your stomach and digest me.”
     “I do no such thing! The earth, it’s the earth that digests you. It says you have a bad aftertaste.”
     “The blow numbs my tongue.”
     “Stop eating it.”
     “I don’t. It finds its way. We all find our way.”
     “There is no way. Just an endless road that reluctantly takes you forward.”
     “Roads are so incredibly boring. They have disgust written in the concrete. Stop. Yield. Do not enter. Why can’t life be a limitless sky?”
     “Because the sky is a limitless sky. And death is everywhere.”
     “Won’t it let me in?”
     “No shirt no shoes no service.”
     “I am barefoot.”
     “How unfortunate. Did you bring the money I asked for? All of the presidents. Hell, even Sacagawea, the old bird, has what I need.”
     “I have a straw and half a candy bar.”
     “Useless! You’re useless to me!”
     “I am broken. I need a fix.”
     “There’s no fixing you.”
     “Write me something.”
     “I’m writing you off.”
     “Digest me.”
     “Too tough. You’re too tough.”
     “Make me tender?”
     “I’ll spit you out for the vultures.”
     “I need a fix. I am broken.”
     “Give me a break.”



5 thoughts on “Digest

  1. Very nice use of imagery in this, you have good writing skills. I’ve followed you – I’m a fellow writer myself, I do mainly short stories and would love it if you checked me out 🙂

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