The Short Unhappy Life

From April 27, 1999:

Above the light continued to shine brightly, but it was still cold. The brightness and coldness had continued for many days now. Francis could not tell how long because he had no arms for a watch. He had little time, he knew that. Time had meant nothing to him until now and now he dreamed of a watch but had no arms on which to put it.

His brothers and sisters were pressed tight around him, but he felt no need to breathe. His need was of time and having no arms is no way to have time.

He could see little--he was young so he was short--except the harsh light on his brothers and sisters. It was not that it had not been light before, but before there had been darkness as well. The light now would not stop, like the cold.

The warmth, like the light, used to come and go. Then the light stopped and he had been ripped out of his home. Ripped like the horns of a bull in the ample seat of a matador who has grown <i>gordo</i>. Ripped like his father was. Francis had seen his father go.

Darkness had fallen across his brothers and sisters too and they were taken. After much time of dark, the light returned but it was not the same. Those with arms would grab at him and lift him. Francis would struggle but they would put him down again and it was no matter.

Across from the bright lights, a boy stood watching. He had been here with his mother before but now she was gone so it was no matter. His mother had lifted Francis before and the boy had watched her.

The boy ran to the bright lights, shivering in the cold. He reached down and Francis felt himself being lifted again in the sudden darkness.

The pain came quick and sharp as pain often does. Francis felt part of him slashed away. There was wetness all around him and his fluids oozed from him. He was tossed up and whipped back down again. He remembered the good days before this. The slashing came again and again until there was a sudden jolt. He was weightless for a moment and it was bright.

Francis hit the ground hard, but that is what happens when one flies without being a bird. He splattered into soft bits that would be collected later. As he flew, he wished for arms to lift him. But he had no arms on which to put a watch.

Above the hopeless dreamer, Mrs. Adams scolded her son. "Nick, you leave them alone! They’re not yours to take. And how could you spit it on the floor--"

She grabbed him and tugged him away from the vegetable aisle.

Nick looked back. A dark green puddle was forming. The boy was sorry for what he had done but it was no matter because Francis Cucumber was dead.