A Watchtower sits on a coffee table in a doctor's waiting room. Slowly, it devours its tablemates,one by one consuming them, page by oage, occasionally splitting and leave a new copy of itself to replace the one it eliminates. One day, the receptionist dusts the plastic plants, and wonders what happened to all the Newsweeks, Time Magazines,and Woman's Days, and why there are fourteen copies of the Watchtower. The phone rings, and she scurries off. Why is a ragged copy of Bible Stories is glaring balefully up at the magazines from its upside-down vantage point on the floor beside the table.
She sets the book back on the table, the phone rings, and she scurries back into her office on the other side of the foggy sliding glass.
She doesn't hear the rattle of wooden legs, the tearing of paper, the flutter of fallen pages. The combined forces of the cannibalistic Watchtower are no match for the hard-bound strength of the Bible Story book.
The janitor grumbles about damn kids and their worthless parents as he sweeps up the tattered, torn remains of fourteen Watchtowers, scattered around the waiting room floor.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
I found this little tidbit scribbled on the back of an expired WIC voucher, apparently written in the waiting room while waiting for my husband's neurology appointment to be over.