Soup

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I was walking home one day, not thinking about much besides how warm and nice a bowl of vegetable-barley soup would feel in my stomach, when a sharp, high-pitched tone assaulted my right ear.  I screamed in pain and fell to the ground, covering the ear with my hand and searching frantically for some kind Samaritan to somehow save me from this awful screech.  Seahorses floated by talking on cell phones, while the trees gasped in terror, clasping their hands over their mouths--unable to move from their rooted foundations.  The vultures cackled, while the hyenas only giggled at the sight of my curled up ball of torture.  And then the blood came gushing out, like a garden hose just recently unkinked.  I tilted my head to one side and cupped my hand tighter, but the blood pooled up in the ear.  It overflowed onto my face and fell into the dirt to create a nasty, awful mud.  Old men wearing suits made of diplomas gathered round to philosophize about the ironic symbolism of such an occurrence, still taking their time to debate the root meaning of the word agony.  But then flowing out with the thick redness, came a slew of other questionable materials.  Pennies, nickels, and dimes poured out, along with old toenail clippings, lost guitar picks, and gravely playground sand.  And with this chunky discourse came larger painful objects that stretched the ear like a birth canal, delivering diamond rings, champagne corks, and old lady curlers.  And still the high-pitched feedback carried on, revealing scuba gear and bee-bee guns, dead kittens and bridal dresses, ONE WAY signs and American flags mixed with dirty laundry.  I cried for help, begging and pleading to anyone who would listen.  Some laughed and some cried, while others only hovered above me--slurping down spoonful after spoonful of wonderful, lovely, vegetable-barley soup.

Created: Jan 10, 2011

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