prose

The Contemplation

“But what is our purpose in life?”

The pterodactyl’s reply came promptly, solemnly. “To bring delight to children who eat us.”

“I look like a stegosaurus…”

“Yes, yes, yes – and yet ‘we’re all made of chicken breast and bread crumbs.’ You’ve said this before!”

“Well, it begs the question: did the chicken come before us or did the egg?”

“…either way you say it, we were never first.”

The nugget dinosaurs slump even further into ketchup. They are minuscule philosophers, waiting on a white dinner plate with no choice but to accept their fate.

I stumbled across a blog with a “100 Word Flash Fiction” challenge and I figured that since I already wrote around 200 words per post, it would certainly be up my alley – and I was right! I’ll jot some down from time to time. They’re definitely more lighthearted compared to what I usually write… I sincerely hope someone will notice the play of words for the title.
prose

Me

When you cry so much, your tears start to mean nothing. There is a certain sadness—a weary emptiness—to them, something that wasn’t there before. Before, they had been full of broken promises, failed attempts, and heart-shattering revelations. They made sense when you cried and they understood you when you tried. When you cry all the time now—when singular teardrops start to cascade in ceaseless rivulets, running down your cheekbones—you begin to feel numb to yourself and to everyone else. You’ve cried so much that it doesn’t make sense anymore. Scientifically, these tears should make you feel whole again—they should make you feel more at peace with yourself. But when you cry all the time, you start to wonder if your feelings were ever valid to begin with.