Short fiction – 487 words
Sipping on coffee this morning, Queen and David Bowie’s “Under Pressure” is all I hear in my mind as I stare blankly out my bay window. Ear worms are the worst kind of worms, I think. There’s no squishy feel to them and no earthy aroma because they’re imaginary. I hum along and bury myself in brown, cup sludge.
I can tell it rained heavily again last night. Everything’s the color of thick mud. I look on to my driveway and mourn over the ground battle that happened while I slept. They say that the early bird catches the worm but they never talk about how the early worm gets eaten alive from the trenches. And who else will carry the depths of their songs?
While leaving my house, I have to daintily step over bits and pieces of real earthworm that lie scattered on the way to my car. Why are there no proverbs written about the sun-charred, mangled pieces of worm left over from the early bird’s feasting? Are they not an important part of the life cycle, too? The proverb should read “the body and blood of the worm nourishes the early bird.”
After dancing my way to my car, I get seated inside. I notice first how puffy my eyes look and think “This won’t do.” I quickly adjust my hair, dab on some liquid foundation, and reverse from my driveway. My little car sways from the brute force of the wind. It’s a cold day and the sun is trying desperately to wake up. People talk about how lovely the fall colors are or how the cooler weather excites them into a pumpkin indulgent frenzy. All I see is death and decay. The bright yellow leaves litter the roads into the litany of a life’s cycle. The sky is an endless void of grey, sucking out the last bit of color left in the world. The air is more crisp, like it doesn’t have any energy left for nurturing. I think even the trees cry with me during this season. Shedding our tears, we still feel heavier than usual.
Along the way, I hear a few geese honking as my car paces with them. I think about how freeing it must be to fly, to travel by floating. I realize then that I’ve never craved wings to fly anywhere. I enjoy the view from the ground, where life finds a way. The earthworms have always thrived by burying themselves in what they love until they sacrifice their being to it. I think of the sacrifices I have made over the years and I wonder where my own decay gets recycled and it is in that thought that I finally remember that life is meant to be enjoyed in the moment.
Meanwhile, my overthinking and still driving mind narrowly misses hitting the squirrel attempting to exist in it’s day.
