Pretty much instantly I started to feel sleepy. Maybe I faint at the sight of blood? There was a lot of blood. Oops. More likely my keepers flooded the area with some sort of knock-out gas soon as they saw me injure myself. My last thought before unconsciousness was, I don’t even know what I want to write.
When I woke up, my arm was bandaged up, and there was a Sharpie marker on the floor next to me. Also the floor was displaying the message BE MORE CAREFUL. Just like that, all in caps and Comic Sans MS.
I wonder if maybe that little stunt got me more followers. No offense, but some of y’all are kind of sick. I’m just saying.
So since I didn’t know what to write, I wrote this here, the story of how I got them to give me a pen. Now I can ask for things, like CAN I HAVE A CHICKEN SANDWICH NEXT TIME or PLEASE NO MORE KETCHUP I REALLY HATE KETCHUP EVEN THE SMELL. Or even, ARE WE DONE YET? CAN YOU LET ME OUT? Only I don’t think I’m ready to ask that yet. I’m not ready to get the wrong answer, or no answer at all. I’m not honestly sure what answer I would want.
(Just so we’re clear, I’m not actually asking that. But I mean it about the ketchup....)
This has been an excerpt from the Friday Fictionette for September 22, 2017. Subscribers can download the full-length fictionette (902 words) from Patreon as an ebook or audiobook depending on their pledge tier.
Cover art incorporates public domain imagery from Pixabay.com.