- Pronouns
- He/Him
Slimy_Froggy
Patron
Wurbeld & John J.
It was dark as night. No, that is a lie. It was darker than night.
Pitch black, it was. Wurbeld could have known that it was pitch black, if he had any clue what pitch was. Indeed, he would know it was darker than night if he had ever cared for the passing of the day. It was all the same to Wurbeld, as long as he could continue eating in the front and doing his other business in the back. The point being, that Wurbeld was blissfully unaware that it was as black as black gets, because Wurbeld, of all creatures, was a worm and where worms live, no light protrudes.
Wurbeld had had a very uneventful life. The most eventful part of his life must have been his birth, and for that reason he remembers the day very well. He was the tiniest of things, not bigger than a toe-nail on the smallest of all toes. How he got into being, however, was a mystery to him. One moment he wasn’t and the next; he was! Little did Wurbeld know that he was brought into this world, not by a momma-worm, but by the extravagant and extraordinary experimentations of a -how shall I put this?- demented alchemist. It is commonly known that worms do not know nor care where they originated from, so let us not elaborate on this scientific wonder any further.
Wurbeld remembered everything from the moment he was ‘born’: His first bites, his first number two, his first meeting with another worm. After that, it was all just counting up, without any new exciting experiences to add to the table. This far, he has had –by his own count- 210.839.213 bites, 123.547.190 number two’s, and has met 120.351 other worms, of which 120.351 had lived a more eventful life than himself. But, all of that was about to change. As he started taking his 210.839.214th bite, he felt a strange sensation at his eight ring (worms are divided into several rings, each of which is as unique to the worm as each of our fingers are to us).
It wasn’t the feeling he had felt before, when another worm brushed over him as they passed perpendicular to his own direction. He doubted, either it was a piece of sharp gravel that had moved position due to some force from above, or it was the sting of a bird pecking at him (something many worms had explained to Wurbeld to be a rather eventful sensation). He was torn between the two options, he thought. But in fact, he was literally torn in two, as the plough from farmer John Jingles hacked through soil and worm alike to prepare his field for the coming seeding season. The last thing Wurbeld did was curl franticly in a sensation of utter glee, unequivocally rejoiced that his life had ended in such an eventful and exceptional way.
T H E ~ E N D
[continued below]
It was dark as night. No, that is a lie. It was darker than night.
Pitch black, it was. Wurbeld could have known that it was pitch black, if he had any clue what pitch was. Indeed, he would know it was darker than night if he had ever cared for the passing of the day. It was all the same to Wurbeld, as long as he could continue eating in the front and doing his other business in the back. The point being, that Wurbeld was blissfully unaware that it was as black as black gets, because Wurbeld, of all creatures, was a worm and where worms live, no light protrudes.
Wurbeld had had a very uneventful life. The most eventful part of his life must have been his birth, and for that reason he remembers the day very well. He was the tiniest of things, not bigger than a toe-nail on the smallest of all toes. How he got into being, however, was a mystery to him. One moment he wasn’t and the next; he was! Little did Wurbeld know that he was brought into this world, not by a momma-worm, but by the extravagant and extraordinary experimentations of a -how shall I put this?- demented alchemist. It is commonly known that worms do not know nor care where they originated from, so let us not elaborate on this scientific wonder any further.
Wurbeld remembered everything from the moment he was ‘born’: His first bites, his first number two, his first meeting with another worm. After that, it was all just counting up, without any new exciting experiences to add to the table. This far, he has had –by his own count- 210.839.213 bites, 123.547.190 number two’s, and has met 120.351 other worms, of which 120.351 had lived a more eventful life than himself. But, all of that was about to change. As he started taking his 210.839.214th bite, he felt a strange sensation at his eight ring (worms are divided into several rings, each of which is as unique to the worm as each of our fingers are to us).
It wasn’t the feeling he had felt before, when another worm brushed over him as they passed perpendicular to his own direction. He doubted, either it was a piece of sharp gravel that had moved position due to some force from above, or it was the sting of a bird pecking at him (something many worms had explained to Wurbeld to be a rather eventful sensation). He was torn between the two options, he thought. But in fact, he was literally torn in two, as the plough from farmer John Jingles hacked through soil and worm alike to prepare his field for the coming seeding season. The last thing Wurbeld did was curl franticly in a sensation of utter glee, unequivocally rejoiced that his life had ended in such an eventful and exceptional way.
T H E ~ E N D
[continued below]
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