Spoon

She handed me a spoon. Nothing fancy, mind you. Just your ordinary, run of the mill, silver spoon. I'm not sure exactly why she did. Didn't make much sense at the time, but there I stood with a spoon in my hand. She had told me that it was a special spoon, something that one doesn't come across every meal, but to me it symbolized absolutely nothing. It was a small, metal spoon with a dent in it's scoop. It's funny how things like this can get you thinking really hard. No reason really, but I guess this is how philosophers get their great ideas...from kitchen utensils. You can look into one side of the scoop and see your reflection. Turn it around and suddenly you're upside down. Someone once told me that it's things like this that will win a war. I'm not too sure about it, but I was momentarily engrossed by my inverted mirror image. The dent caused a vortex-like distortion in the middle of my forehead. A man laughed. To my right, a sharp-eyed gentleman was walking down the sidewalk, engaged in an animated conversation with a spoon held in his hands. On the corner, an old, rusted spoon was bumming money off of passers-by. Several signs were posted in shop windows advertizing voting rights for spoons. Some spoons were even operating hot dog and ice cream carts on the sidewalks. The air was filled with chatter and excited clicking noises. I blinked, and suddenly found myself in a burning battle ground. Screams of anguish pierced the fray as men vainly fired their weapons at targets they couldn't hit. Thousands upon thousands of soup ladles swarmed over a hill and began pummeling the helpless soldiers. Their chrome finishes glinting icily in the apocalyptic heat of war... I shook my head and rubbed my eyes, furiously. Everything was back to normal. I was sitting on a stool and holding a spoon. It was just an ordinary, common place spoon with a dent in its scoop...and it was grinning at me.