A Story That Has Nothing To Do With Anything

One of my teachers from the olden days (just kidding–this was a year and a half ago) sent me an email with a story I had written. It was supposed to be from the point of view of Lewis Carroll (who is totally awesome) and I think I might have been a little tired when I wrote it because this is what I came up with:

One day there lived a small rabbit, known by his peers as Fuzzleton Worm. He worked at the train station some one hundred feet from his hole which dipped into the ground in a sort of cavern, and he wore a pressed waistcoat—red—and a pocket watch that kept splendidly accurate time. The address was 101 Milton Street, Hidey Hole Num. 2.

            Directly next door lived the hare. His name was Sir Jemson Nottle Muddleton Thom the third. He had silky brown fur and a nose that was soft and delicately wrinkled. He worked at the race tracks not 50 yards from his hole at 102 Milton Street, Hidey Hole Num. 3.

            Now, it was a well known fact that Sir Jemson Nottle Muddleton Thom had the winning lawn for three years running, and each year Fuzzleton Worm attempted to beat him out with his inventive new creations. One year it was a shovel—known to the rabbit community as a Poppycock. With three swings of the spade it would dig a hole deeper than a human bulldozer. In an attempt to build a fine swimming pool for his 526 children, he ended up with a mound of dirt higher than he could have possibly imagined. The Lawn and Beauty Committee disapproved and so Sir Jemson Nottle Muddleton Thom had won.

            The next year it was a watering can that held enough water to keep one’s lawn constantly green. But it had a leak, and soon Fuzzleton Worm’s lawn was flooded from fence post to fence post, and again the winnings went to Sir Jemson Nottle Muddleton Thom.

            But not this year.

            He was at work from dusk to dawn and dawn to dusk, working on his new invention. This one would be the winner for sure. Weeks and weeks passed and he could be heard in his hidey-hole garage, sawing and hammering. His wife would have sworn his wielding mask was permanently indented into his small brown face, but he refused to relent.

            Finally the day of the competition arrived and Sir Jemson Nottle Muddleton Thom the third’s lawn was as pristine as the year before. Colorful flowers lined his hole and a white picket fence, freshly painted, outlined in his yard, a matching white mailbox sat stiffly near the road and he trailed over the evenly cut lawn, pulling a weed here, and plumping a flower there.

            Next door, Fuzzleton Worm’s lawn was nearly as lovely, the only exception was the large, iron hand that leaned back and forth in the wind. When the committee members approached some ducked behind the others, tucking their earls low, their fluffy white tails twitching nervously.

            “This,” Fuzzleton cried, “is the invention that will top all others. The Robo-hand-it-to-me-gloved-butler-hand hand.”

            “What does it do?” One hesitant rabbit asked.

            “That’s a surprise!” He cried, and pulled the switch. 


Apparently it doesn’t have an ending. It just–stops. I suppose that means it’s up to you to finish it. Good luck!

And to answer your question, yes, this really is what I do with my life.



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