A Short Story: Of Men and Sore Thumbs

As a boy he always had a remarkably active imagination. He always thought there had to be more to his mundane existence. He believed he was meant for a greater purpose. To save the world. To change the world. Or even to destroy the world.

It was no coincidence then that he stood out. Like a sore thumb surgically grafted from the hand of some grotesque creature onto the flawless hand of a fair princess, he stood out.

When the other children dared each other to touch frogs and kiss little girls, he would disembowel frogs and lick the little girls; wondering what lay inside one and what the other tasted like; sometimes alternating between the two desires.

As a man he always had a wonderfully warped imagination. He was certain that there was more to this mundane existence. He KNEW he was meant for a greater purpose. To save the world. To change the world. Or even to destroy the world in his efforts.

It was no coincidence then that he stood out. Like a sore thumb severed from the hand of an angel and stitched on to the paw of a deathly devil, he stood out.

When other men shuffled their feet to the rhythm of the societal chains that shackled them, he would shuffle his feet to the rhythm of the voices in his head and strangle men with their chains; wondering when those that spoke inside him would leave and what the other tasted like; often times succumbing to his cannibalistic desire.

As a monster he could not distinguish between reality and his imagination. He was no longer certain of even his own existence. He had misplaced all sense of belief or purpose. And in his twisted quest to save or even to change the world, he had destroyed his own.

Terrible art done by myself...