A Rusty old toaster shrugged awkwardly on the side of a cast iron bathtub, confused about the suitability of its location. A foot advanced nervously upon it flirting with the idea of giving it a kick. A pair of proud black wellington boots balanced upside-down on saturated oak floorboards so as not to fill to brimming. An aggressive rain cloud, hung (as clouds do) overhead, dominating the minimalist bathroom. Floating beneath lay the man named Woe. You might have called him sad, but given the strength of the rain the word lacked the gravitas Woe bought to the table. Which in this case was the rusty old toaster, before that came, a revolver with a single rusty bullet that misfired, severing Woes trigger finger leaving him a finger less, a diluted glass of aspirin, too weak to deliver a fatal dose, and a rejected length of wet Rope with no place to hang. These cheerless items proved Woe, like Sadness, lacked the conviction his name suggested.
For some, life was occasionally overcast with the odd chance of rain. For Woe, the rains never dispersed, never gave in. Living was an endless monsoon, a deluge of unrelenting drops echoing through his fractured mind. Woe could deal with the dampness, the overcast hues that haunted his days, his prune like appearance with overtones of wet dog. But he struggled with the relentless din of dripping. It was the same din that drove Japanese POW’s to lunacy. And after 36 years of drip, drip, drip he had come to a crossroads, which all he had to do was cross and his tortured soul would be free. Woe wrestled with his breath as the water crept over his nostrils. His reedy body, neutrally buoyant, bobbed like a feather on the surface of a puddle. Unnoticed the toaster had lost it’s footing and joined in with the bobbing, Woe, disappointedly wasn’t shocked at all. He didn’t try to understand why the little toaster had failed its mission, he simply sighed assuming whoever pulled the strings hadn’t yet granted him his time. Had his preoccupied mind not been so busy curbing insanity, he might of thought to plug it in. Alas he watched despondently as another failed attempt at death drained clockwise down the plughole. There will be a time to bask in the flames of hell; now was not that time. Woe must try and sleep, because he had work in the morning and didn’t want to be late.
DANIEL J BENTLETT 