A very short and incomplete tale of cookies, fiction, adulthood and perpetual confusion.

The little Girl held on to the rim of the trashcan to peer inside its abyss. Eyes as wide as macaroons and filled with intense curiosity, she wanted to see to the bottom. That’s where the cookies had gone. The tips of her toes didn’t give her the needed boost, except to hook her nose onto the plastic lined ledge. Tongue wedged strategically in the corner of lips, she stretched her neck for extra height. The adults took notice, asked the Girl what she was doing, didn’t wait for the answer, and told her to get away from there immediately. Trash was dirty. That’s where things went that got thrown away.

The Girl disconnected her nose and her heels descended back to the ground again.

Then, just as a thought began to form involving using her father’s workbench as hide-away cave and the flour bins as fortress walls, another plate of cookies swooped overhead and met their doom in the dumpster. The dino-shaped cut-outs that the Girl had helped sprinkle with colored, sanding sugar.

Her eyes darted back to the display case to assess the safety of any remaining survivors. If bewilderment hadn’t caused mild paralysis, she’d have raced to the display and begun devouring cookies as quickly as humanly possible, all the while shoving more into her pockets. Anxiety brimmed into the little girl’s eyes, still fixating on the horror of it all. They were throwing away delicious, beautiful things. Even of the dino-shaped variety.

The Girl took it upon herself to save them from themselves. The seemingly automated trashcan, powered by its Lilliputian motoring system disappeared into the broom closet without notice. With a tidy “click,” the door shut and The Girl puffed up her shoulders with self-righteous satisfaction.

But, before could she could release her sigh of contentment, a loose trash bag materialized to dispose of the ever-amounting cookie carnage. They were relentless. She sat down, resolved, upon the floor.

Clearly, adults were crazy people.


1 Comment

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One response to “Stale

  1. Glenda

    Marissa –

    I loved this – I can see it happening.
    and that picture – SO sweet-

    Dusty has been safe in my care. No more worries – thanks for your help.

    Miss you ~


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