First-Class Stories, Part I
Soma

So once upon a time there was a boy. This was no ordinary boy. You see, this was not a boy at all!

This boy was a girl.

Not one to be confined to gender stereotypes, though, this boy set out to do everything in the world she could possibly do. Yes, everything. You see, this girl was incredibly idealistic and liberal and all such things so rare in fairy tales, and he wanted to simply go out and make something of herself.

So she did. He flew a giant rocket to the moon.

Not that anyone believed him of course. She didn't have any moon pictures or moon rocks or even moon dust between the grooves on his shoes, but nevertheless she sustained that he did indeed visit the moon. And it was not, as they said, made of cheese.

She said he even tried to taste it.

You see, she hated the idea that people thought the moon was made of cheese. She loathed the idea as the epitome of humankind's ability to be insanely stupide (as the Frenchmen in town would say). This boy thought she had never heard of a stupider, more ridiculous, and all-around-unsubstantiated story in his life.

You see, she was a liberal, though, so it was not an uncommon thought to come into his head.

So the aforementioned girl, who did indeed visit the moon, eventually accepted the fact that no one would believe him. It didn't take long. You see, this idealistic and liberal girl also had a streak of realism in him that caused sudden bouts of extreme comprehension and epiphanies and other things of that sort. The fantastic realization was that his life was being crafted by a third-rate writer rushing to reach a deadline.

So then a few minutes later he realized something else - something incredibly ominous and even foreboding. She calculated that the writer was out of time. Past the deadline, even. He didn't believe this fared too well for her.

You see, she was well-read enough of a boy to realize (without much effort) that most short stories end in some tragic way. If not physical death, then probably emotional. She couldn't figure out which one was worse - only that the first one was usually self-inflicted and the second was was not. Unless you counted inability to get over an unreasonable loss as a shortcoming.

She didn't.

So he stood there for a few seconds admiring a flower or rabbit or small piece of stone, something that someone could probably find some redeeming philosophical value in. This boy was on the edge of nirvana. She could taste it.

But before she could make any more realizations, though, she suddenly died.

You see, sometimes things just end up that way.