Z.

I bought a can opener yesterday. I was at home and looked at the can opener I had. Poor thing. It stared up at me out of my kitchen utility drawer like those abandoned puppies you see in those ads that ask you for just ten cents a day. A faint voice came out from it— "Kill-- me!" it squealed, rustily. A tear came to my eye. It was time. How long had I kept the poor thing going, forcing it to endure far past its natural life? The teeth of its gears were ground to nubs. The handle, sticky and faded after the old rubber grip had worn away from the metal years ago. Rust and grime accumulated around its deep ridges and angled recesses. Disposing of this now ancient can opener wouldn't just be merciful, it was the sanitary thing to do. Holding it delicately, I took each of its arms in the palms of my hands. "I'm sorry--" I said. It closed its eyes. The sweet embrace of cold death had arrived. With one easy snap, I broke the can opener in two-- and promptly droppe...

Think of the afterlife of a leaf. You grow up, living your entire life stuck to one little tree branch with all your brothers and sisters. You have a beautiful view of the world around you, but can never touch it. Slowly, over the course of a season, you blossom, wither and die. In death, you fall from the tree that you've lived upon your entire life. Dead, but, for the first time, free. The wind guides your descent like you never experienced in life, before. Blows you away. Through the air. Over the ground. Down hills to who knows where. You collect amid other leaves you've never met, huddled together in ditches or curbs or hollows. A mouse gathers you up and carries you off to a hole in the ground. You're tucked away, inside, all winter. Your crackling, brittle lamina insulating the mother mouse's babies to keep them warm as they grow. Slowly, in that dark warm space, you crumble and dissolve into the soil. Piece by piece, until you are unrecognizable from the dirt an...