Adventure in Writing: He Never Saw the Body!

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I was cooking dinner with my wife. I don’t remember what we were making, probably something with chicken, but we were definitely cooking dinner. I remember reaching for a wooden spoon when this sudden realization came over me. I stood frozen as the words formed in my mind and echoed throughout the hollow cavern that is my skull.

“HE NEVER WENT TO SEE THE BODY!”

The words came screaming out of my mouth and into the world. Spoken that I might hear them aloud. Shouted loud enough for all to hear my shame.

My wife looked at me for the weirdo I am and asked me what I was talking about. I held her for a moment, unable to answer, with eyes wide and full of regret. My face betrayed the raw horror eating away at my psyche.

I swallowed back the dryness in my throat, and with a conscience made of lead, I confessed that I had unintentionally killed 53,967 people by a single omission.

Echo never went to the county coroner’s office. He didn’t see his father’s body. He went straight to the church, spoke with the pastor, and stormed out in a fury. After he went to a coffee shop. Never did he take possession of his father’s remains!” I said.

Her eyes narrowed. I could feel her gaze analyzing my every word, assessing my every unconscious twitch, judging me with a righteous righteousness! I awaited the unbearable hammer of justice to fall upon my head for committing so foolish a crime.

“You’re a nerd.” She said with a roll of her eyes.

“But…but…he never went to see the body!”

“Uh-huh.”

“And that means everything I wrote is wrong! A lie! Needs to be fixed!”

“Yeah.”

“Well?”

“Yes?”

“He never even went to see the body! Don’t you have anything to say?”

“Yeah. Are you done with the wooden spoon?”

Are you done with the wooden spoon. She said it. In the face of a cataclysmic plot hole which threaten the entire universe, with calm thoughtful contemplative wisdom, she had given me the answer.

She wasn’t just asking for the spoon -I mean she was and I gave it to her, but she was imparting a powerful metaphor. In asking if I was “done with the wooden spoon,” she was asking if I was ready to set down the pen. She was challenging my intentions. Would I give up, or would I push on and set right the world I set aflame?

She was right! I knew what had to be done.  I had to finish making dinner, but after I would save the world!

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About Z.

Poetic pipe and cigar enthusiast rifling through the haunted memories of a not so distant past while openly wrestling with faith and God. A rambling writer with the misguided notion that he has something to say. His only redeeming qualities are his wife and children.
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