Amid These Ramblings and Sentiments

Six days now; It's been so long since the sound of my children's voices rang true in my ears. I would search for the others, but alas, I am a grandpa and my body is weak. I am frail. I cannot sustain myself much longer. I find myself whittling wood, creating knives and spears and such. Apparently my instinct is preparing me for the battle that imminently lies ahead. Should my children permanently abandon me, I will be left to discover ways to keep my body alive. Though my words appear bleak, and my body like a pile of toothpicks, pipecleaners, and Fruit Stripes gum, I will find a way to survive.

I changed my food rations from "meager" to "scraps" status (see Oregon Trail), and today I was forced to hunt down my food for the next week. Alas, I was not able to escape the confines of my own front yard; I slipped on an ice patch on the front sidewalk and landed face-up in a snowbank. From there, I began hurling my whittled spears and knives at any living creature that happened to pass by, hoping to catch a few pounds of fresh, fleshy meat for my next meal. I had three "hits," one of which was a small child passing by with his mother. After she had discovered the source of her child’s screaming and bawling, I became the recipient of my own death weapon. Determined not to give up, however, I launched two more spears at a squirrel in the tree above. Bullseye.

I managed to pull myself into the safety of my home and into my walker with my bloody squirrel carcass. Cleaning the squirrel proved to be no easy task however, as the flanks of a squirrel are anything but bountiful. Nonetheless, I cooked them over an open flame and dressed them over a pile of grass I managed to grab from the front yard when I was withering in pain from the spear-induced puncture in my leg caused by the crazy, googly-eyed mother.

As I finished digesting the last few blades of grass, I stared out the window once again, hoping to see my precious Chaunson children returning home from an adventurous day in the mountains and woods, smelling of farts and Natty Lite. I hoped the phone would ring, only to hear the the voice of little Emo Chaun or little Baby Chaun. I had hoped my only convicted, estranged grandson, known as the Bike Seat Sniffer, and notorious for his crude acts in public bathrooms, would write a response to my pleas for company.

Amid these ramblings and sentiments, I realized that I may very well suffer the pangs of loneliness and rejection within these walls should I not act. My children no longer care for me. It is apparent I must fight this fight alone. I declare war on the world. As Pac once said, “It’s just me against the world.” Bring it on you grublets.

Grandpa C