Simpleton Goodness
(a piece of flash fiction)
Simpleton Goodness, known to her friends as “Oh My,” gently and rhythmically moved her right pinky finger back and forth as she sat alone in the dark. Contemplating her life? Absolutely.
Author’s Note: Stop, have you ever given it any thought at all about how in the world a narrator of a story knows all that they know? It really is inexplicable. I am in a mood; I find it disconcerting that people sit back, suspend disbelief, and keep reading. Many of you should spend your time in other, more productive pursuits.
Simpleton was arrogant and angry even though not a single person (other than me, the omniscient narrator) recognized these character flaws. She appeared to be a nice and humble woman, and everyone liked and respected the family she came from. She was unassuming and generous with her time and her money. So, you are thinking, how exactly was she arrogant? Easy, keep reading…
Simpleton wanted to leave something behind, something for future generations to remember her by. She wanted her descendants (even though she had no children) to know what it was like to be her. Ergo, she wrote and wrote and then wrote some more. She worked extremely hard to master her craft; she spent nearly all her time on this lifelong project. She always told people she wanted those who came after her to know how complicated and interesting she was and how wonderful her life was. Are you still wondering why the mysterious narrator of your story considers her an arrogant, delusional piece of work?
I know what you are thinking. You want to know what was so special about this woman that she decided to spend most of her time documenting her life. So, what was it? To be reasonable and honest – nothing, not a thing. She was a middling woman with a mediocre education who lived in a modest house with no husband. The only thing she ever did that was noteworthy was to appear in this set of paragraphs. Nothing more, and believe me, I have looked.
She was just a person, an average person. Why write about her? That one is easy; she, like every single person on the face of the earth, thinks that they are unique, that her life has a real purpose. Sigh, do I really have to say it? Do I have to say that if everyone is special, then no one is? Do I have to tell everyone that believing that your life is interesting enough to write about makes you a delusional human? Do I really need to say all that?
The sad truth is we all live, and we all are going to die. If it gets us through the night, it is perfectly fine to think that we are special and live an important life. Maybe, just maybe, that is a lie, and we all are going to struggle to get by.
The best I can do is wish you all good luck; that seems reasonable enough to me. I am the narrator, I AM SPECIAL, I am not one of you…I know things.
