The neighborhood’s children will miss him. Yes, he drove through the street with a truck load of green space balls as he shoveled them out on the asphalt. Now he sits in the bedroom with the cheek against the cool wallpaper and dangles with a little silver bell. Thinking. Planning. Mostly thinking. Too much actually. Above the right ear, a slug’s ear has appeared, so fresh air can enter his thoughts and people can see how it is with him: He has been bitten in the leg by a shark. Therefore he totters so I constantly think he will fall over. All the time he gets up and staggers around. Walks to the sideboard with the gold pieces. Walks to the closet with fresh napkins for the corners of the mouths. Walks over and lifts the corner of the carpet. It’s annoying me so I’ve started throwing black things after him and at him. A record hits him in the throat and he drops dead. A piece of felspar hits him on his arm and he sings Wanderlust. A blackbird flies over his head and shits him in the hair.
(The articles at The Other Newspaper are fictitious. The purpose of The Other Newspaper is to give the public a new, disturbing and humorous reflection of the way we consume news on traditional media and posts on the social media that make the recipient question whether the world needs to change and whether one can live online.)