A Random Writing

Recently, sitting in the dolrum of education I am required to frequent, I penned a small short story/mock-epic on the nature of greed.  Well, without further adieu, enjoy.

 Best,

 DBR

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 We Sin Because We Like It:

We sin because we like it.

You’re in the seventh grade, perhaps the eighth, and spot the teacher’s bag of M&Ms; that sweet, lustrous, divine bag  – that medley of color; it has to be great.  Crap, it’s on her desk, Mrs. Cline’s holy ground, the graveyard and eternal Hell of all things good and fun.  There, deep within those entrapping and damning drawers, lie clattering teeth, bubba teeth, comic books – all things fun, not the pseudointellectual garbage crammed down your throat in lamely written texts. 

You first remember, before you march onward, those horrible classes before lunch.  Mrs. Cline would ever so gently reach for her M&Ms; as she did, the paper sack would crumple and the hard shell of the candy would rattle like an earthquake causing tremors to rock your empty stomach.  She would eat them one by one religiously every day thirty minutes before lunch as if she were torturing you, just you, for your adolescent hunger. 

You come back to and look around, attempting to repel attention, nonchalantly and wonder, “Will that fat, self-indulgent goat really care?  Surely she could do without her oh so precious M&Ms, she has them every day, that hoarder!”  You look around, seeing a few fellow pupils doing their routine in the bright, happily decorated mobile home room: Johnny is picking his nose, Susie tackily flipping through the pages of an ancient fashion magazine, and Frankie, with a lack of mental development – his mother dropped him as a baby we think – is still blissfully sniffing sharpies with an inebriated smirk below his sunken eyes.  Susie, sporting a once preppy pink tank top, stains running down the front, looks sickened.  

You approach the desk, your conscience heaving you back, back to salvation from the unlikely consequences.  You reach the board, the base camp for all desk operations, above which semi messy, blended print and cursive writing spell foreign words on a black, desolate background, constantly mocking the stupid – but that’s not you, certainly, you’re sure of it.  You begin further reconnaissance:  where are the M&Ms, where are the idiots you are forced to call classmates, and, most importantly, where is Mrs. Cline, that wench? 

The M&Ms, thank God, haven’t moved, for if they had foul play could be afoot  – a trap by the wench, the “educator,” whatever that means, to capture those who seek what she hoards. Those slobs are all preoccupied with their inferior tasks, as required by your grand design, your plot, your ploy against the wench.  Mrs. Cline is still about, trying to stop the new kid from sniffling over a test she blew, those cretins.  Cline isn’t helping.  “This is my chance,” you mutter to yourself, praying no one else heard you. 

You sneak upward, limited by your diminutive stature, until you reach the summit of that goat’s desk, wolf-like, stealthily, preying on the goal – the M&Ms. Taking one last moment of your reputation as a sycophant with the teachers, you stall, savoring the transformation like the candy to come.  You strike and the sack succumbs to your developing grasp, for once silently.  You have taken the M&Ms, the former symbol of your inferiority to that goat and you are pleased. 

You descend the mountain quickly, exuberantly staring at the loot which is far grander than you imagined, back to your lair in the back of the room.  In order to hide your thievery, you sneak the bag into the front left pocket of your slightly dingy cargo pants – it works.  From your earlier vantage the bag looked simply brown and white but now it is glistening in the florescent lights, the wax reflecting the signage on the wall, and reflecting your face like a mirror. 

You sidle to the back of room to your lair, bristling with excitement.   You finally reach your intended destination, your backpack, into which you place your loot – you hide it of course, in the back pocket.  You don’t dive into your prey now; you savor the search, the hunt, and the kill, during which your heart palpitates rapidly, as if it’s trying to get out of your chest.  Right after you tuck the spoils from sight, that patronizing wench comes over and, in a manufactured squeaky voice, she asks, “Are you doing okay?  Do you need to go to the bathroom ‘cause you look awfully excited?” 

“No shit, you whore,” you think to yourself.

Lunchtime comes from Father Time who permits you to leave the squalor – temporarily.  Hitherto lunch isn’t a fun time for you as you disassociate yourself from the ignoramuses which frequent the cafeteria; today there is call for celebration.  Out comes the backpack, the armored car, and its contents, that precious cargo delicately placed inside.  You sink in wolf-like.  It is delicious.