sanemagazine: wonderful rubbish

I really wish there were such a thing as a lollipop tree.

He walked into the room, and the mirror on the opposite wall exploded.
This was not a good way to begin the day, most certainly not.
A few minutes later, just after the shards of glass and other assorted mirror-y things had succumbed to gravity and settled somewhere on the floor (though a few brave pieces did managae to cling to the ceiling, walls, and lampshades), the day didn't get tremendously better when he died.
It's not that he was terribly upset with the way the day was going, exploding mirror and all considered, though dying really didn't, he found, sit with him well at all. Not when he was still thinking about it, and definitely not at all when he realised his last thought had been something as inane as "I really wish there were such a thing as a lollipop tree," not that it wasn't a lofty wish, but he was sure there were things he could have better spent his last wish on, things like "I wish I weren't going to die for no apparent reason in the next two minutes," or "Life is nothing but transient conjunctions of wholly incompatible things, complaining when apart, complaining when together, that is intransient, alone."
The lollipop thought was vaguely cryptic, which might have been a last thought consolation, but he knew what it was he was after in thinking the thought, and it really had no deeper meaning.

In the act of dying, which he was vaguely aware of at the time, he apparently, which he was completely unaware of at the time, was hit from behind with something rather heavy, rather blunt, and rather lethal. As happens when one dies of being hit from behind with something.
Overall, he was prepared to rate it one of the more annoying days he'd had for quite some time, not the least annoying feature of which was the fact that he was still dwelling on his formerly being alive and the day he had been having instead of walking towards the light or something. It just all felt horribly inappropriate.

disclaimer:
Sleep(s) on Chickens is a novel by the brilliantly promising ex-sanemagazine writer William Murphy, and a delightful break from the serial, short though it may have been.


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		archives horoscopes contacts fables home		I really wish there were such a thing as a lollipop tree. He walked into the room, and the mirror on the opposite wall exploded. This was not a good way to begin the day, most certainly not. A few minutes later, just after the shards of glass and other assorted mirror-y things had succumbed to gravity and settled somewhere on the floor (though a few brave pieces did managae to cling to the ceiling, walls, and lampshades), the day didn't get tremendously better when he died. It's not that he was terribly upset with the way the day was going, exploding mirror and all considered, though dying really didn't, he found, sit with him well at all. Not when he was still thinking about it, and definitely not at all when he realised his last thought had been something as inane as "I really wish there were such a thing as a lollipop tree," not that it wasn't a lofty wish, but he was sure there were things he could have better spent his last wish on, things like "I wish I weren't going to die for no apparent reason in the next two minutes," or "Life is nothing but transient conjunctions of wholly incompatible things, complaining when apart, complaining when together, that is intransient, alone." The lollipop thought was vaguely cryptic, which might have been a last thought consolation, but he knew what it was he was after in thinking the thought, and it really had no deeper meaning. In the act of dying, which he was vaguely aware of at the time, he apparently, which he was completely unaware of at the time, was hit from behind with something rather heavy, rather blunt, and rather lethal. As happens when one dies of being hit from behind with something. Overall, he was prepared to rate it one of the more annoying days he'd had for quite some time, not the least annoying feature of which was the fact that he was still dwelling on his formerly being alive and the day he had been having instead of walking towards the light or something. It just all felt horribly inappropriate. disclaimer: Sleep(s) on Chickens is a novel by the brilliantly promising ex-sanemagazine writer William Murphy, and a delightful break from the serial, short though it may have been.

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