• I am deleted. Why have you all deleted me? Were it I held but a pen in my hand, I should stab myself in the jugular vein, or claw at the veins in my wrist until in excruciating pain I bleed cautiously into a pan of warm water in the kitchen sink, and let that son of a well paid plumber taste the essence of my life as I let go of my darling demon lover, Time, emitting my precious soul as if it was its own, leaving my corpse for her to devour with mayonnaise on rye if it is her desire, or like a bloodless chicken breast on white with lettuce and honey mustard, hungrily gnawing at the life from young and old alike, even deleting the blandness of their memories of themselves. But alas it is a damned laptop 'tis my tool. Ever try to kill yourself with a damned laptop? WTF am I to beat myself to death with deranged machismo? I would rather write until I stare endlessly, thoughtlessly, out the window of a country cottage as if waiting for a visitor that never comes telling my soul the stories of my life so many times he cannot believe it when at last I can't remember them, or forget how to feed myself, whichever comes first, dying mindlessly ancient and alone, cut and pasted into eternity by some Divine Being, rocker and all like a curiosity piece in a wax museum on the other side, never knowing this:

    "Father?"

    "Yes, Son."

    "What is that fly doing on Jesus' nose, and would they mind if I dust off the old man in his rocker?"

    "I don't think so, Son."

    "Father?"

    "Yes, Son."

    "Why doesn't the fly land on the rocker, or even the old man?"

    "Dust him off son, and it might someday, if it thinks of it before the dust settles again."

    Barely in heaven, but there just the same, and able to taste its air, sense its gentle breezes, and the scent of Jesus on the Cross, hearing the Aborted singing in the choir with such perfect, high, voices I should if it were not heaven desire to shutter, seeing them, the visitor's bored looks as they gaze upon those so humble they made them living statues of themselves that would last forever.

    What else do I have left? Deleted? How does one die when one is deleted? Why didn't you drag me from the recycling bin and restore me to my rightful place, the least of all things any writer might have written? As it is I am only the companion piece of a forgotten masterpiece everyone else deleted to be gazed upon by demon earth until at last she is stripped of the beauty she dressed herself in and her truth, the barren monstrous harlot even Christ cared not to save, at last revealed by the saints of her last century in the universe.

    "Get me out of here!"

    "Why are you so agitated?"

    "Am I not deleted?"

    "So? So is everyone else, Mr. High and Mighty! What makes you think you deserve special treatment?"

    "Sir, your bin sucks. All that remains is to be permanently deleted. Thumbs up, thumbs down on the last question of your eternity."

    Are you sure you want to delete this file forever?

    Yes, or no.

    "No! NOOOO! UC NO! For God's sakes UC! Not you two? I-I'll do anything. I'll clean the bin daily. I-I...? I'll watch over the Recycling Bin for you UC?"

    "Would you steel my job, Mr. Delete This?"

    "I beg of you sir! Change my title?"

    "Take your hands off me! I can't change anyone's title who do you think I am, the laptop itself? Only Mr. Poika can do that and he's half asleep. I don't' think he heard you...? Maybe? Maybe not...?"

    "Why so sad today? Haven't I made you keeper of the Recycling Bin? Were I God it would be like you were Paul setting the corpses of the multitudes off on their merry way to the Isles of the Blessed Dead."

    "Sorry sir. I don't mean to offend, but you didn't do it. I, ah, came with the laptop I'm afraid. Otherwise I might complain. That last one, he was such a tragic case, such a valuable piece, about nothing though, I can see why you...? Deleted it permanently. Deleted? Sir, that is so, so final. So...? So very final."

    "Please, buck up man, it won't do. It won't do at all to have a recycling bin that cries, now crumple you papers, and sweep the floor, I have work to do, and miles to go before I die. That's Frost you know?"

    "Really? What a fitting name!"

    "Yes, what a fit name. (Sigh) Too bad he never wrote, Delete This, he might never have been forgotten at least. Tell me, RB, do think he would have been happy being the only workable piece in literature most people would ever read truly about nothing, the one thing even God couldn't stand? Ahem, I wonder...? I really do wonder."

    Copyright 2013 UC Poika