On his very last day, he baked a quiche in the oven. It wasn’t a particularly special quiche. It was made from a forgotten pie shell that had been left in the freezer drawer. to this he added some uninspired frozen vegetables that he microwaved first. His faithful dog watched him as he worked. He has a smile on his face because he loved to cook and he was looking forward to a time when the work in his kitchen was finished and he could really enjoy the space.
Just after the pan had been put in to bake, he remembered that he forgot to add the italian seasoning . He threw a pinch on the cooking pie.
What had I been, before I was born? He sensed that maybe it wasn’t accurate to assert a notion of being. Nor of before.
He looked at the yellow lights in the unfinished room. They were dull now, but he knew they would be quite bright when he woke for work at five the next morning.
The butter has been set upon the microwave oven and was a deeper yellow than the lights. He felt , as he thought this, that his writing was going in circles.
Undisciplined.
That is an apt descriptor.
His last day would carry the self-loathing that he had carried his entire life.
Olalla Creek 