Everybody's Wrong but Me
by Alan Hall

I grasp my tattered shield, isolating me from the frigid air. My frozen toes quiver as I slide across the kitchen floor. Simulating a steam powered aircraft carrier, I smash over defective paper airplanes. After navigating the rough sea of pedestrians I slowly slide into a state of slumber.

Awakening from my snug sleep, I rise and head towards the cabinet in search of some heavenly smooth peanut butter. On the way I hear my brothers and sister snicker at one of the gargantuan holes in my blanket. Immediately I step into it, and stretch my body out spanning the circumference of the hole. I beam with pride as my siblings laugh. They torture me, as they have for weeks, about how hideous it is, and how a new one would exceedingly fulfill all of my desires. After countless mental assaults, I finally give in to their request to relinquish my precious.

Lost in the moment with my blanket tucked under my arm I confidently approach the kitchen sink, swing the door open, and deposit it into the rubber cylinder. My eyes sadly become fixated on it in its new surroundings as I hear my sister shout, "Mom, Alan finally threw his blanket away." Hearing my Mom say in an enthusiastic voice "good," my feeling of void is quickly diverted to the excitement of the moment. Seeing everyone smiling, and receiving congratulations I feel like a movie star. Soon I receive my newly promised blanket. I grasp it searching for comfort, and finding none. Sniffing it for that familiar scent, I find none. Searching for something, anything, I find nothing.

After hours of searching for some salvaging pros to my newly acquired piece of cotton I give up. My void remains as empty as the second my precious blanket was out of reach. Craving it I return to the trashcan, and scandalously retrieve it out of the receptor. A feeling of completion flows through my body as my cream-colored blanket returns to my grasp. News quickly spreads to my mother who forces me to return my blanket to the garbage for so called sanitary reasons. I cry as I think to myself it's too late, it's gone; my temporary mistake has turned permanent.

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