Powerhouse

There was once an old tale of woe. In this tale there lived a mouse. Now this mouse lived a long and prosperous life, while living in a grand forest. Benji, the mouse's name, told me once of how ettiquette used to be taught. Once he did that the trees in the forest would grow to large detail. Bound by the laws of the forest, this mouse would handle about anything that was thrown in its way.

A bold mouse it once was now had grown timid over time. As we all do from time to time. A passion that was once large could be given over tomorrow or today. And no one would be the wiser for it. Or torture themselves to the dark side of the well in the middle of the forest.

Now Benji loved to tell tales of old in a rather peculiar way. Twisting the meaning and warping all of our fragile little minds. Until a later date to be discussed. The tales were twisted and devious. And that is how he liked them to be. A glory unto his own. Polishing the eyeballs in a little nook that he created. Over time his memories would fade like a fast moving eighteen wheeler truck.

Rascal though he was, neither one of his fans liked the stories he told. But that was not the worst of it, no siree. All of his friends enjoyed the stories though. This was something that he enjoyed very much. It gave him an outlet to his pain. So did the music that he fed himself with.

All in all Benji could not live without storytelling. That fabled rush of a thousand words to his rhythm of disfunction. It became a parralel to which there was no other. A sarcasm of such monumental reprieve to pick the bluebonnets into a patch. And put them back on the table as an express way of thanks.

In the meantime all had been forgiven. Towards which no one had any idea of spreading the godforsaken truth. The forest that housed the mouse was a special one. All covered in gook and mire. Spread around the bonfire of the vanities. Into which nothing could escape. To drag down the covers of malotov whiskey. The thunder from the forest kept up the multitude of hover creeping through the trees.

Sledding through a faction of a miracle. A garbled trash can of epic proportions. This mouse met a lion along the trail. He could not believe his eyes at this ponderance. This was a minor miracle to his forehead. A forehead that gave him a headache that he could not take away. Would he want it away anyways? Let's find out.

"That was a cool idea to find the search bar on the keyboard," Benji thought. Maybe it will help me along the way, to my next journey abroad. The leaves will thank me for watering them. That was a random thought. It did not guarantee sanction on any level. The sand dollar on the leaf littered floor of the beach, crawling through the patches, was all that Benji could think about. It was a random color of opal. It looked like it had been there for ages.

Goldie, the sand dollar, opened her eyes for the first time on Sunday. She believed it was a Sunday, but she was not sure what day of the week it was. Her therapist was always available on a Sunday, that's why she thought it was that day, anyways. She met her friend Benji at the daily bar, drinking a classic margarita. Boy, that was tasty.