Once upon a time, there was a young piglet whose parents had been sent to the slaughterhouse. He was all alone, and he had nothing but the desolate landscape of his thoughts to keep him company.
One day while he was walking through the enchanted forest, he happened upon a mighty panther, so long and sleek and powerful. The piglet was sure that the panther would devour him immediately. And, without doubt, that thought crossed the panther’s mind.
But then . . . a beautiful and delicate fairy drifted down from the White Tree of Magic, and she informed the panther that the piglet was in possession of the purest soul she had ever borne witness to. The panther was a hunter, a merciless killer; and yet, the fairy’s words touched his heart. He spared the piglet, slinking past it on his way to some alternate feast.
The beautiful fairy did three revolutions in the air, waving her ornate oaken wand and sprinkling the dust of her race over the piglet. In less than a moment, he had transformed into a tall and strapping man.
“You are human now,” the fairy said to him. “You shall protect this world from evil and greed. You will live many years, and you will do incredible things. Henceforth, your name shall be Elijah.”
With a flutter of her lace-like wings, she flew down to Elijah and kissed his cheek. Then she disappeared.
Elijah still lives to this day, just as strong and pure of heart as ever he was. He awaits the last battle with steady hands and a patient heart.
My name is Emma, and I’m sitting here in my plush red chair, feeling completely alone.
I realize I’m more fortunate than many, but as I sip at my drink and tap at my keyboard, I feel like a ghost cut off from the entire human population.
There are so many memories – so many reminders of failures. But there’s also that last remaining spark, that thing that whispers in my ear, trying to let me know it’s not over yet. “Bank account doesn’t have to be fat,” it reminds me. “Keep working, it’ll be all right.”
And then there’s the fact that she’s still with me. If I were her, I would have taken off running months ago. But she’s still here. My pretty girl.
I sip at my drink, and I tap at my keyboard. The world is a vista of endless possibilities.
I loved her, and she loved me.
Did she love me? I was never sure.
I was fat, and she wasn’t, but she never seemed to mind. She went down on me as if I were a supermodel. She clutched my back rolls like they were holy sacraments, burying her face between my thighs to make me believe she really loved the way I tasted.
“You don’t have to,” I told her. “You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to.”
Then she smiled mischievously at me. “What the hell else would I do on a Tuesday afternoon?” she inquired.
That was why I loved her. I think she loved me, too – but I was never sure.
Traffic diverted us round Ludgate Hill, and I watched as St. Paul’s great dome slid past the window.
I thought of it for a moment. A cathedral dedicated to a man who must have had one of the most radical transformations in history – going from someone who persecuted Jesus’s disciples in Jerusalem, to a man struck blind and given back his sight, ever afterwards to proclaim that Jesus of Nazareth was the Son of God. It was an idea too large to wrap my head around. I couldn’t imagine such a transformation. I couldn’t imagine going from something so low to something so high – and it made me dizzy.
But the church was gone as quickly as it came, and it was never very close, so I quickly forgot about it.