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.