Yesterday I fell off the edge.
I was just minding my own business, walking along the path, talking to the voice on my Walkman. It was getting late, and my free hand was occupied with a paint bucket leaking black cherries, so I was walking mostly on my feet, but I swear, I was nowhere near the edge when I found myself, all of a sudden, having fallen quite off it.
It took me a moment to get my bearings, which if you’ve ever fallen off the edge you’ll know takes twice as long as the falling itself, but luckily I was falling for ever such a long time. Long enough, in fact, to remember that I’d left my bearings at my mother’s house just in case something like this should ever occur and I found myself needing to get them all at once. This realization meant I had time to think about my upcoming liability claim. I should mention that not only did I fall off the edge, but the cherries and the paint bucket and the Walkman did too, which I decided would be the primary piece of evidence in the upcoming trial.
I wondered if even more victims would be at the bottom, assuming I ever reached one, whom I could interview to bolster our case. Together, we would all storm the sacking of the dismantled aristocracy and petition the restoration of our restitution. Then, we would all start a band called The Restitutioners, and on our debut album cover would be an executioner taking a rest.
Once I’d written this all of this down in perfectly-conjugated Latin prose I started to scoop up the cherries with my free hand (after all, I’d drawn them especially for the Culinary Ammunition Festival that very afternoon) but I decided to leave some to fend for themselves because if no harm came to any of them, that would cut severely into our restitutions.
But then, tragedy struck as my occupied hand lost track of my Walkman. This really was the last straw because my great god-niece had given me that Walkman on the occasion of our first Arbor Day together as step-siblings.
And now it was all over the edge.