This is something I've been working on for a while. I've been at it for about a year now, but inspiration comes in spurts. I'm sure you all understand.
Atticus and the Warrior Sloth
My name is Atticus, and I view life as a sloth. But not just any old sloth. Atticus, (myself), views life as a warrior sloth, who fears nothing and no one. Because he’s a sloth. And a warrior. Every day, he sits around and hangs out and bemoans nonexistent miseries, pretending to not care but caring so so much. Caring so much that all the world expects of him is to sit around and eat and sleep and moan about all of the trivial things life-sloth finds unsatisfactory.
Until one day, this life-sloth is wandering along and BAM! he gets hit by a goddamn car. But the sloth doesn’t mind all that much. He is lying on the side of the road, not really able to move at all, but the warrior sloth doesn’t mind. The scenery is sort of nice, I guess. The sun is just setting over the fields and fields of Illinois corn. Endless fields of gorgeous, green stalks. Out of the corner of his eyes, the sloth sees a raccoon. Obviously, the raccoon has an annoyingly cliché’ name like “Rocky.” And Rocky is sitting there, munching on some corn that fell off of a stalk that the sort-of-organic farmer had missed, as he was hand picking the vegetables of his labor. The warrior-sloth debates saying something, anything, but decides not to. A ladybug lands near the sloth’s nose, and the sloth lets out a mighty exhale through his nostrils, sending the ladybug flying away.
Finally, the sloth realizes something.
“I am dying,” thinks the sloth. And he was. Warrior-sloth was quickly dying, and he knew that he needed to leave the road before he lost himself completely in the corn, and the sky, and the painfully hot street.
He was just starting to get up when he heard a sound that reminded him of wind, steadily increasing in volume. And then BAM! he was hit by another goddamn car. So the sloth lay dying.
“No!” thought the sloth, “I will not die.” The life-warrior-sloth was finally starting to think, to understand. But cars came, one after the other, never ceasing. And the sloth would not die. Until finally, just as life-warrior-sloth gained enough strength to stand, a company owned, diesel driven, eighteen wheeler screamed down the highway and crushed life-warrior-sloth, like a piece of insignificant fecal matter beneath its feet.
The gorgeous Illinois corn watched, as if nothing had happened, because they knew that the death of life-warrior-sloth meant nothing to them. Of course they would mourn briefly, but in the end it meant nothing.
My name is Atticus, and I view life as a sloth.