A Story by Ms. Spriggs



Tell me where to go from here.

Because when Jesus said, "my yoke is easy," I thought he literally meant that he liked his eggs over easy.

When you mentioned reincarnation, I thought you had to put yourself in those little flowers over and over again.

You made me listen to the sound of one hand clapping, but I clapped my fingers against my palms.

There was no I in team, but there was a me.

I didn't know that when you told me there was no such things as monsters,people didn't count.

In the end, you said "all you need is love," but the Beatles are dead.

At a time when Robert Frost was zoning inspector for the city, he mandated that all citizens with chain-link or barbed wire fences be replaced with beautiful white-painted slabs of wood. The success was so big that America put the same kind of fencing on its Mexican border.

My real fear is that I drink before I eat and be merry.

So where do I go from here?

When I die, I will be sent to some furnace, rot under the ground, or become a dragon in 2012. If I do actually make it back into the world, I might still die by the hands of florist.

Please, if you kill me, do it with mustard gas while I am eating a hot dog.

The problem is, your doctrine came from the wrong hospital, and my goal is only at the end of a field. It isn't Elysian.

When I last saw Jane, she wasn't some omniscient being with a broom and tea kettle. She did give me a piece of celery, but my bones grew brittle. My body was weak.

Once upon a time, Prince Charming left the door open while her beauty slept, while Baba Yaga was no longer a threat.

You said the terrors of our time were within the bounds of a heavy woven cotton fabric.

That those who named themselves after a fallen Christian angel worshipped an Egyptian God.

Just do one thing, cut a plant every week so it can die over my grave.




© 2008 Ms. Spriggs

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I enjoyed your Voltaire-esque use of satire. The contrarian back and forth of the piece. It gave me a feeling of an optimism at being skeptical and pessimistic with the world. A frank, but not begrudging or bitter acceptance of feeble mortality. Practical and blunt; I found it thought provoking, to say the least.

Posted 7 Years Ago

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Added on July 11, 2008


Ms. Spriggs
Ms. Spriggs

NY, Azerbaijan

Livid. Livid.

A Story by Ms. Spriggs