The Spear

Jean was a librarian, and a pretty decent one at that. She wore dull-colored clothing to work everyday and had glasses, the circular kind. She read avidly and always had suggestions for anybody who bothered to ask. All of her male colleagues had beards, as they were all English majors.
Bad things happen to librarians, too, oddly enough. She was walking to work one day – she lived about a block away from “the grand bastion of literature” as she called her place of employment – when a spear fell out of the sky and landed right in front of her, point down in the grass. If the spear had dropped even a second later, that grass would have been her and she would have been impaled through the head straight down. I am rather pleased that this did not happen, as it would be a rather boring story, like ones about recovering from an incident usually are (as opposed to the incident itself), and it would also be rather graphic and I would have had to waste a large amount of time, words, and finger-muscle strength to convey to the reader the disgustingness of the scene, which didn’t happen. Digressing from my digression, back to what actually happened. Jean grasped the spear’s shaft with both hands and pulled as hard as she could until she managed to release the spear from the incredibly dense soil that was present in the area. She examined it:
Looked Indian, with those little notches on the head that let you know it was handmade and not just produced in some factory. The shaft which she had been gripping very tightly beforehand was carved all over with strange markings that she supposed to be Indian. She lived in northeastern France and so it was not very uncommon to encounter Indian spears falling out of the sky and nearly missing one’s head. Exited by this discovery for no comprehensible reason, she quickly grabbed the spear – it was not very large – and ran to find the nearest taxi. She could almost hear the uptempo bebop soundtrack booming out in real life like in a New Wave film, as she ran for the taxi. It only got worse once she got into the taxi, and the driver began to drive at about fifteen miles an hour, and although we are in France, I’m no big fan of calculations. Naturally, she assumed that she must be going crazy, and therefore ate some of her crazy pills that she had always kept on her person, because one never knows when the situation one is in requires the eating of crazy pills. Unfortunately, somebody had switched the pills with a rather strong hallucinogenic substance, therefore making her actually crazy where she had been simply over-imaginative before.
Naturally, taxis and hallucinogens do not mix very well. She jumped out of the car with a scream as soon as she saw her first squid and began pounding on the black asphalt in a somewhat LUGUBRIOUS and IRRELEVANT sorrow when compared to her situation. As she beat on the ground, holes began to form, big black holes. Supposing they were wormholes when they were actually sinkholes, she jumped in with a scream of joy that was exactly the opposite of lugubrious and promptly sank to her death in the mud, as the asphalt was not asphalt but actually mud, she was a very good jumper and had cleared the street and the sidewalk and landed in the mud by the road – it had just rained and the soil was getting very soggy.
The spear, however, survived, and lived happily ever after.

Walk

I was taking a walk. They say the first step is the hardest and that’s generally true. You have to stand up, groan, lace up and tie your shoes, and even then you’re only physically prepared. But not mentally; that takes more effort, something which is very difficult to gain. Effort is like a precious commodity that nobody wants, it’s like seeing a golden necklace embedded with fine pearls thrown into some dumpster in the slums and left there to be picked up by the trash people when they came every week and live out its necklace-life rotting in some shit-ass landfill.
Anyhow, I had none of these problems. I was so used to it that it really did not take too much effort at all, the amount comparable to maybe standing up and walking yourself to the door. The door in question in this particular situation that I was in was tall and white and made of wood. About eight feet tall, maybe 5 feet wide. It was a pretty average sized door, but nobody was really caring. The white paint wasn’t chipped or faded, but you somehow knew, just by looking at it, that it wasn’t new and had in fact been there for quite some time. The peep-hole was small and inconsequential to the story, even more than the dimensions of the door, as the peep-hole was not and will not be used. The door, however, will. But let us now turn our attention to the handle. It was made of iron with a sort of greenish tint, and very curvy. It was one of those handles that one has to push down on rather hard and then push forward to open the door. I did what I just described and passed through the threshold and into the outside world.
It was a little bit chilly out, with gray and cloudy skies, which always seem to both lift and drag down my spirits and the same time. It was a day where there was about a seventy percent chance that it would rain. I left it up to chance but brought a hooded sweater just in case things got wet. A bird let out a screech as it ran rather comically into a birch tree, dropping its dinner out of its beak in the process. It was odd, really, I felt sorry for the bird, the way it looked at the worm crawling away, it was probably going to go hungry. Yet, I felt glad for the worm, narrowly escaping the jaws of its predators and crawling heroically away. The worm, I thought, was Superworm. Then the bird at the worm. So much for superpowers.
I walked farther away from my house, into a trail into the woods. The woods were comprised mostly of birch trees, and the animal life was mainly ravens and spiders. The webs, they crisscrossed all over the top of the forest, in between the tops of the trees like some demonic cross word puzzle that there is no answer to except fear, the strongest emotion. Fear propels like no propellant, propelling into love, hatred, war, peace, anger, tension, betrayal, sabotage, and a number of other pleasant and unpleasant things. If money was power, then fear was richer than Rockefeller.
Continuing my walk, I fell into the sort of daydream one normally gets while one is walking through the woods. The daydreams of the epitomes of all your hopes and dreams, and idyllic version of your future life, every failure in your life rectified and gone, no worries, just happiness. This warm glow would be in your chest all the time, everywhere you went, everything you did would be just perfect and if it wasn’t you would make it that way because you were perfect and your life was perfect and everything was just so great. Don’t you wish, sometimes, maybe those daydreams would come true? Well, I guess that’s the point of daydreams, wishful thinking. What you wish your life was, what it isn’t. I sighed and decided there was nothing I could do but keep walking down the forest path.