The return of the sugar cookie

As the fox shivered under the snow, he realized now how hard it was to stay fed when a rabbit kept him in shape.

As if craving a hen or two, that perverted youngster, the fox suddenly saw a light as if a dove was ready to sacrifice itself for the sake of love.

Cold and hungry, and tired by all the chasing he did just to glimpse the tail of that damn rabbit, he seemed hesitant to get up, even if youth kept him alive.

That was when the a voice from above commanded hom to go explore the source of the light, a little beyond a hill and trees.

Remembering his stint with a farmer, he knew what this entailed.

As he grumpily grudged along the snowy field towards the hill thst awaited, he began to hear the soothe of a voice calling to him, both familiar yet lightheared.

“Dear fox, is that you?” the voice playfully asked.

The fox, aware of the trap being sprung, but having the knowledge to obey, simply whined and continued on, knowing pain was going to come no matter how much he hesitated.

Upon getting over the hill, he sighed as the light was still further off, lit now from within a patch of trees.

With another whine, he begrudlingly kept forward, feeling the hunger that only a fox could feel after a long day’s chase.

“Oh dear fox, please hurry,” the voice now playfully pleaded.

As if unfazed and a littled annoyed, the fox still kept forward, knowing how this would end.

Upon entering the patch of trees, the fox now saw the light and where it came from, as it was the sugar cookie from five years before that he had forgotten.

“Oh fox, it is you,” the 🍪 now exclaimed!

“Hmm,” the fox muttered, remembering the tinge of sadness at having chosen tale over comfort.

“Quick,” the sugar cookie said, come closer.

“I seemed to have forgotten you,” the fox said, getting closer.

“Oh, indeed,” the cookie exclaimed, “but how I haven’t forgotten you!”

“I thought you would have been insulted by me not eating you the last time!” the fox exclaimed, now disappointed that it wasn’t a squirell.

“Oh, how I was, but I understood why you would choose a chase instead of my sugary exterior. But hurry, fox, come quick. I have something to show you!”

With that, the fox edged neared, now seeing the sugar cookie for the second time. As he gazed so disappointed, he suddenly noticed two smaller cookies, both black on the outside with white in the middle.

“Dear cookie, what is that?”

“Oh fox, those two are my children. They’re not as sweet as I, but they do fill better than I do. And I know that is what you so desperately crave!”

At that sweet sounding playful feminine voice, the fox suddenly felt a pang in his stomach, knowing well now that perhaps the chase was over.

“And what is it you wish for me to do with those two cookies?” the fox asked.

“The same I offered you last time and which you denied me,” she replied.

“A mistake can be forgiven, but never repeated,” he cooed back, now awatye of the guilt he would feel.

“Oh, its okay,” the two smaller cookies said in unison, “we really don’t mind!”

The fox hesitated, but remembered his days with the farmer. He looked back over to the sugar cookie.

“And you’re okay with this?” the fox asked hesitantly, raising his right eyebrow with suspicion.

“Oh fox, its okay, for they are small and simply cookies. They aren’t as sweet, as I said, but they I promise they are meant to be eaten!”

“And what is in it for you this time?” the fox asked, with the experience of five years enough for him to know all that entailed.

“Only that you never forget me?” she so playfully cooed back.

“Indeed,” the fox responded, now looking back at the smaller black cookies.

“Oh, please eat us fox!” the small black cookie again said in unison.

The fox still hesitated!

“Oh, go ahead. This won’t hurt me at all!”

“Indeed,” the fox said, now edging closer.

“Oh please, Mr. Fox, do hurry!” the small black cookies said in unison for a third time.

The fox yet still hesitated!

“It’s okay, I implore you to eat them. It will make up for the first time you denied me!” the sugar cookie playefully cooed.

With the go ahead from the sugar cookie and the knowledge of his days with the farmer still lingering in the back of his mind, the fox with the burst of youth and and animalistic nature sprang upon the two little black cookies with the white cream inside and without any more thought devoured them, making sure to lick the crumbs off his two white fangs.

“Oh, what a good fox you are!” the sugar cookie exclaimed 💗, playfully soothing but with joy and motherly affection now.

The fox, knowing the guilt that was to come, simply bowed his head and rested in front of her there.

“I’ll regret these children, but I won’t forget you this time.”

With that, the sugar cookie merely sighed, as the fox now rested, the snow falling softly as winter began its white bloom.

As the snow fell, in the distance the rabbit could be seen, hopping off into its own patch of trees.

Moral: Love tends to forget, but a sugar cookie’s grudge never goes away…

dedicated to Sia Furler…

Advertisement

she had it way too wood…

My relationship with Emily Dickinson is one fraught with neglect.

I wont say i dont like her poetry, because that is a lie. Its simply that i dont read her work anymore.

After high school, she was my go to muse whose voice i stole, even as she red her work in my head. But as i trapped that soul that insisted that poetry sounds better read in our heads than spoken aloud, it became obvious we shared a same thought.

As much as i admire her style and brevity in expression, i have to be honest. I dont really know much of her work to begin with.

Yes, theres a famous quote about feeling sheltered and a poem about death knocking on her door, but as i recall my early days typing out those inspired efforts in control and metaphor on my windows 98 notepad, the more obvious it becomes how indebted i am to her phrasing and refusal to say simply what exactly she is referring to.

Back in the early 2000s, psedu-online academics complained about millenials and their insistance upon the use of obfuscation to hide their meaning, but for emily i think the more appropriate choice of words is cryptic.

You wont believe this, but theres quite the insalted chip on emily’s shoulder being expressed thru this poem.

Like a lil’ wine rap poet who thinks she can out “plane” my own obvious body of work, she seems to think shes clever by comparing herself to Jesus by insisting she was “formed” as a “carpenter.”

As she brags about her ability to work with wood, a not so subtle euphesism for the erections she giving “us” (shes insistent upon making sure the right pronoun is differentiated between her “i” and “we’, pervert! 🤦), it becomes quite obvious shes making sure the reader has to read between her lines to figure out shes refering to someone else. Who that person is will forever be indebted to her refusal to say, but i have a feeling its two out-of-shape ghosts who were having fun with her ouija bored she tended to play with when trying to connect with them.

More on this later…

Yeah, shes clever and yeah we both could use an indian’s thesaurus, but if this braggadadoccio white 47-year-old hussy can think she can out whit my own obvious word choice, just timber it takes two much stronger halves to hold up a pillar.

The funny thing about this poem, tho, is the realization that the more i envy over it, it’s the the meta-narrative behind it that makes “us” laugh.

Written during an enfuriating and chill November fall that year in Massachusets, i think she was referring to an infamous cake recipe of hers that can be found on http://www.pinterest.com. As if reminding the “builder” himself that she was going to bake a way-too-good brick cake that year, the use of the phrase “measure out” giving this meta in-joke away, she does let slip her own admission at being broke. Acknowledging her own lack of skill at her own craft, a humble admission that her well was running dry when trying to think of something to write about, its her honest but frank insiatence that the builder would “hire us” if we could simply get better at our craft.

I hate to remind mrs. Dickinson, tho, that poets dont make money, and even carpenters have to advertise their bench their sitting on. “At halves” we are indeed, tho ill take a quarter of that cake. Lil wine wants to share thay brick ur baking. 🤦👄👄👄💬💀

While we’re being honest, ill just ask God himself for forgiveness as i admit id love for her own human “tools” to size up my own wood.

If she was obvious like modern moseses such as myself and maybe lil’ wine 🤦, she would have compared her skill with her crayons (how else is she drawing “faces” with her “tools”?) to being a mason.

Instead she has to humble us by remindimg us shes the martyr hoe gets to command us modern and illiterate obvious poets that she knows how to even a bored, but let me and lil wine 🤦 tell u sumthin right now babe. We may be the lil’ dicks inside ur sun 🤦💬💬💬😎, but we’re the builders, got it!

Now stop “toiling” on that “bench” and help me and my other lil’ wine 🤦 “half” hold up this pillar so we can put a roof on this damn temple (body!!! 🤦💬💬💬🤔 – read the good book!!!! 🤦💬💬💬🤔).

Yeah, we’ll do as you command us to do, but you’re the carpenter, got it! Now go cross urself as u remind us about how mny eggs u could afford to bake that brick.

Moses has got his work cunt out for himself.

envy

🍷