Saturday, January 28, 2017
In a quaint, quiet forest a mole went around, tilling the earth and digging the ground. He was searching for worms, his slimiest prey, when he discovered a farm that would fill him for days.
There were so many worms, he ate himself fat. On writhering thrones, he slurped and he sat. When he was finished, there were still many worms who attacked him in strong, slimy squirms.
Sifting the soil, the worms trapped the beast, bathed him in grime, and made him their feast. The mole was too gorged to put up a fight. An ironic twist to his utopic night.
The worms then thrived for three thousand years, devoid of thought, worry, or fears. They evolved into a race of omniscient beings, finding all answers and gleaning all meanings.
One sunny day, a boy dug them up, washed off their dirt, and filled up his cup. He used them as bait when hunting for fish. Catching a trout was his number one wish.
Grabbing a long, wriggling worm, the boy set to stick the hook through its form. Just before the point pierced its soft side, the worm told the boy, "I want to survive!"
The boy dropped the worm in startled alarm, stumbled backwards and tripped over the farm. The pile of worms slopped out of the cup, raced for the edge, and dropped in a plop.
In the cool water, they raced for the shore, unaware of what the fish had in store. Within a minute they were swallowed up whole, which really was this story's one goal.
You see, the fish were part of a plot to show you what the mole begot: the beginning. And the moral of the story is this, my dear, faithful friend, nothing matters when it comes to the end.