Of Boxing Bears and Jello

Once upon a time, there was a boxer named Ruffus. Ruffus was a very famous boxer, well known and renown for his successes in the notoriously dangerous boxing world, not only in the ring, but in the times without. Ruffus, though severely concerned with winning his next match with his arch nemesis, Swenson, was, on this particular monday (the day which our story will begin), rather upset with himself, as would all professional boxers be in his somewhat unique situation, for as he trained, and as he practiced, there was one thought that would so persistantly nag at his consciounce, that training in itself could alltogether be deemed as ineffective and moot. Moot, futile, and as worthless as a goldfish, for with this thought in mind, he simply could not practice!

The thought was this: jello.

Oh how he longed for it! The training would go on, and his energy would deplete, and his mind would ALWAYS, no matter the time, place, or thing, settle on this resolute determination, for, as luck would have it, he, on this rainy monday, happened to be in a place where the gelatinous confection which he desired was refused entrance, and thus, did not exist.

A perplexity to all, of course, would be WHY, of all things, Jello (its aliiiive) would be refused access into the place where he was living, but the sad fact is, it was, and there was nothing he could do about it. So instead of enjoying a fine slurp (for that is what one does to jello, to slurp it) of his desire, he dreamed it, and in his dreaming, found himself hungrier, and hungrier, and hungrier.

What I have neglected to tell you, until now, is that Ruffus, our boxer, is not a normal boxer. Ruffus was- or, still is, a bear. A bear? you ask. Yes, I boldly illustrate, this boxer was a bear, a fighting bear, and to all that hear my voice, I declare, this particular bear could fight! Or box, to be more specific. And I am sure, you could imagine, this bear was successful.

If his opposer even chose to fight at all. Some, upon the sight of him, elected not. The match would last usually not but four seconds, for upon the bear´s first blow, the challenger´s head would usually come off, and the curtains around the ring would fall, hiding the carnage from the proud and screaming audience (for that is what they came to see, the head of an opposer to come off). The ring would fall, and the bear would finish his meal, the janitors would come to clean the mess, and when the would finish, he would eat them too.

Of course, this would only cause more of a mess that he himself would have to clean up after, but that is simply the price Ruffus would pay to have a nice meal. The curtains would rise, the managers would ask where the janitors went, and Ruffus would be forced to eat them, for if he didnt, why, they would have the audacity to report him for having lunch! At this point, the audience would be screaming "more! more!" but where would he find more? He has eaten all that stood against him, and there is none left to consume, so he would leave, and go in search of dessert.

This dessert, when he was at home, ALWAYS consisted of jello and whipped cream (the whipped cream added the perfectly sweet touch that he always enjoyed). But, as I have already detailed, today it was nowhere to be found, and he wept. He wept like a child, with burning tears of longing streaming through his fur. He would find it somewhere, he resolutely decided to himself. He would find it, even if he had to eat through buildings of businesses and villages of peasants to get it, get it he would, and there would be nothing that could get in his way.

THE END

PS. Dedicated to my best friend Anna, who was the inspiration for this story. :)

Of Cupcakes and Chickens

A cupcake lies waiting upon the outstretched hand of a young, hungry child. This position of extreme peril, of consumption most certain; has this pastry but a glimmer of hope for reprieve? Or has his judgement been sealed, the tomb already closed, the sepulcher darkened beyond the reach of light?

This sweetly decorated muffin, how has he come to such grim circumstance? Soon to be gnashed into the soggy juices of digestion, does he fear his unavoidable fate?

On comes the mouth, the rising of the world around him. The wind rushes, and the breath of his captor begins to fall upon him. Again, he asks himself, how have I found myself in this most ignominious of states?

He gazes to his side, his right side, and looks upon the fallen and mangled remains of the brothers he had come to know so well before. The placidly cool and confined world where he once lived was truly far different than here. The frosting of the blue cake, with whom he had always taken front position, lay smeared across the face of another screaming child.

The monster. An unthinkable end, he thought, until he realized this same fate was soon to be is own. The child's teeth had come into view; their yellowing jags protruded from the white base, glittering as saliva oozed about them.

It would appear as though I am not his first victim, his thoughts continued. Remnants of green sprinkle could be seen in the far corners of this cave expanding around him. Perhaps the cake that sat to his left? Then again, green sprinkles were quite common among those of his batch. He himself had even acquired one or two.

He was, at this point, more than half way into the child's mouth. Death would soon grip him, and his fear would be no more.

"On the contrary", his mind countered, "what have you to fear in death? Of the great ones, you are none. You were not given the honor of bearing a candle! Your life means nothing, and never, ever, will."

The tongue began to draw near, and his thoughts returned to his own consciousness. I am myself. But what is "myself?" I am cake, obviously. And cake is a mixture of a number of other materials, ingredients, if you will, just as this child (by whom I am about to be consumed) is made up of waters and calciums and other elements of an essential nature. The difference of make-up between this child and I, however, is he is made of living things, whereas I... I am not.

He began, mournfully, to consider those materials with which he had been created. Water, sugar, flower; not remotely alive. Butter and flavorings, ha! They are the cause of the end of lives. He scoured the list from top to bottom, thrice, in his final seconds, but still could not find any alive. Was there one missing? Ah of course, eggs, but they too are of little consequence.

But then began a tickling in the furthest chambers of his mind.

These eggs... what are they? Surely not something alive?

The child's teeth began to sink into his warm frosting, but the cupcake could no longer feel the pain. The tickling inside him began to grow.

Eggs come from chickens... and there is egg in me... am I not just some mutated form of chicken? A positive affirmation bubbled up from the memory of thoughts before.

Such a strange epiphany this was to him, the sudden realization of who he was, IS, and to which potential purposes his life could still very well be destined to entail, that at the dawning of it, that tickling feeling inside expanded tremendously, and before he could even grasp what was happening to him, he had transformed into a full sized, living chicken! To the child's great misfortune, his head was neither big enough, nor strong enough, to take the pressure of containing a very much alive and squawking fowl inside of it, and within a matter of two seconds flat, exploded outright. Every child present, at the expense of the poor child's mother, required years of specialized counseling to overcome this terrible scene to which they all had born witness.

Epilogue

Now, my dear reader, I do suppose, that in spite of the tragic death of this pitiable mother's child, and notwithstanding the traumatization of an uncountable number of other mother's children seen today, you may feel reason for happiness, or perhaps even joy, for coupled with this series of most unfortunate occurrence came the creation of quite the unique creature of life. A bird, who, stretching forth his newfound wings, took augustly to the sky, abandoning all thoughts of his conjuncted life before, and so soared majestically into the oncoming horizon above.

Reader, I beg of you, do not think this thing. Upon the protrusion of this freak mutant of cake, the thing, (for I know not what to call it) flew heavenwards, directly into the family's newly installed industrial strength ceiling fan, and was promptly and effectively beheaded thereby. Perhaps as a fulfillment of justice, or perhaps the last of a series of cruel jokes conceived by the deceiver, the chicken was immediately plucked, gutted, and eaten raw by the then incommunicable party. The reason for this gorish turn, researchers have yet to determine.

All cravings for death quite satisfied, the scene ends abruptly, and the mother takes them all out for a dollop of ice cream.

You now know the story

of the cupcake

that became a chicken.

The End