Reaching into the darkest corners of my creative mind, plastic bag in hand, I come back out with:
I am a plastic bag, just a plastic bag. I cannot be described as malicious or cruel. Indifferent, apathetic maybe. A trickster with a plastic bag, now there is something else altogether.
It’s safe to say she’s a simple-minded fool. She thought it would be funny, the look on his face when he walked in and found her lying on the floor with a plastic bag over her head. Needless to say, she hadn’t really thought it through.
Oh, it’s not that she didn’t realize she’d made a mistake when fresh oxygen was no longer permitted entrance to her lungs. She even tried to tear me off of her where I was taped, only to realize she had done a very thorough job of securing me around her neck. Why would she have done so in the first place? Why, it had to look real, of course.
Simple fool indeed, dead fool now. What a shame. I bet they’ll rule it a suicide. What else could have possibly happened here? And of course, I can’t tell them any different. I’m just a plastic bag.
Old assignment from Writing Workshop I took in April. This is one of the writing exercises that got the ball rolling for me in the beginning. For whatever reason, it makes me laugh.