Someone Died Today by Stratton Timgle

Someone Died Today

by Stratton Timgle

I wrote this one day after listening to some woman on NPR read this piece of literature that was simply a waste of my time. I'm sure it made her feel good about herself (she could call herself cultured) but it meant nothing to me. So, I decided it would be a good idea for me to write something just as good so that I could call myself cultured. Don't read it. It's a waste of time.

Today someone died. I was staring into her soul when the life just sort of evaporated out of her. It was a lot like one of those blazing hot summer days when you just lie on the pavement and gaze haphazardly through the heat waves, letting them turn your world into a blurry middle-Earth. I stumbled over a small boy on her floor. He was content. Just content to exist. He couldn't talk, but I knew what he meant.

The only way that she was going to go back to him was if he changed his ways. Sure, he was nice, and he had a steady job. But he was addicted to professional wrestling. You know, the kind where the greasy, jerry-curled, mammoth-sized dude struts out to the tune of "Girls, Girls. Girls" or some other cock-rock cliche. He would come home after work, grab a cold beer, sit in his recliner. and leave this world. For four straight hours, both time and space became non-existent as he lost himselt in a cacophony of egos and bad acting.

It was dusk when it flew away. It was like watching the embers of a fire flitter up into a clear October sky. It was not a bad thing.