Why I don’t write fiction

The following is an excerpt from a collection of short stories I found in the depths of my writing folder. I don’t write fiction anymore, and finding this piece has reaffirmed my choice.

“Oh, I see.  So I don’t belong to a food group is that it?  I’m not wholesome enough?”  The Smartie was red. Well, actually it was green, but after fighting with the carrots all morning he was becoming frightfully angry.

It was the big bi-weekly store meeting.  An election for new milk mayor was on the agenda-the last mayor expired. The edible community members of the local grocery store met on a regular basis, always to elect a new milk mayor. Logic would suggest having a non-perishable food item govern the store business.  However, this community enjoyed getting together; besides, the dairy party-the party with majority seating-said that voting on a regularly was healthy. That was their number one platform: health. In fact, that was number one platform of every party. Health was extremely important to the food groups, which brings us back to the junk food aisle and the red green Smartie. Fights like these occurred every meeting.  The protests were usually headed by the spicy Doritos, but the Smarties were particularly annoyed today.

“Nuts to your pretentious cult meetings.”  The Smartie paused and turned to the chocolate covered almonds. “No offense.”

“None taken,” they replied.  They were good guys.


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