I started the following short, short story on January 6, 1993. It is called…
The Tale of the Man with the Fork
He wandered in the bright city streets, being bumped and bruised by the busy passers by. He had no sunglasses, just his hand to shade his eyes from the searing heat that hit his skin and browned it browner than the brown mother nature gave him. In his hand he held a fork. With it he would poke and poke until the people moved from out of his way. They would let out a yelp and hop to the left. They would let out a yelp and hop to the right. They would let out a yelp and hop, hop, hop to the front, front, front until they finally moved to the right or left so the man with the fork could get through. Eventually, nobody messed with the man with the fork. They would always get out of the way.
Then, one day, as so often happens in stories such as this when it seems that there’s a need for a shift in plot or some type of action and so one day something happens because it has to happen or at least begin on one day since it can’t happen on two days at once, there came another man, a man for whom everyone moved out of the way. Everyone respected this man’s space. They gave him plenty of room. This man did not carry around a sharp fork. He did not poke men and women with a sharp object to get his way in the world. No sir. This man had a plate. It was a silver plate. But it was not the silver plate that earned respect. It was the fact that the plate was full of heaping, dead skunk that stunk to high heaven and kindly he offered it to everyone around him and those people were happy to run away and let him have all the space he could possibly want.