Wheat from Chaff

She would lay draped in a towel, lips agape and waiting for a plate of toast. It was dreary. I had a limp from a skeet-ball accident and exaggerated it for effect. Toast will make you chubby I said, and watched for her underweight face to pinch. The toaster clicked to a halt as I appeared and it lobbed it's wheat payload above my fingers as i snatched instinctively. Too late; the toast spiraled around its vertical axis on a thin trail of smoke and out of my view altogether.

I was miffed, and the girl did nothing but huff a menacing huff. Toastless and desperate, I had no choice but to buckle into my tractor and peel down a bushel or two of grain to dry and pound into flour. This was a promising task, but before I could limp out to the tractor the sunny summer sky faded to a winter dusk and I was threatened by the whir of frozen tumbleweeds. Grabbing the short shovel from the barn, I made my way out into the simmering ice storm and slapped at every icy thing flying at my head.

I spied my decimated crops out of the corner of my eye, and shed a lonely tear.

The tractor would not start, being instantly frozen by a harsh new season, so i pushed it for 17 miles until I realized my legs had frozen together. My limp finally cured, I crawled to the nearest house and rapped at the door. The family dog let me in, dragging me by my limp arm to the fireplace. I started to warm instantly, though too late for comfort as the lady of the house entered the living room and let out a mighty scream.

I was frightened and literally frozen. With no way of protecting myself, she proceeded across the room and grabbed a large broom and brought the handle down upon my head, shattering me instantly to bits. Since then, I have lived mostly in study wastebasket and am lavished with fresh scraps and plenty of appologies.