Below is a story I wrote. I wrote this story on my birthday. Considering the content and complete oddness of the tale however, I would not like this story to be associated with my birthday, or thought of as my birthday story. I set out writing this with no goals in mind. The ending reflects cliched endings that think they have something to say, but as we all (hope) we know, they don't.
Once upon a time…
… there existed a snub and passive dwarf who was addressed by the name Oxford, however he was originally christened as Pappy Peddleguire. Oxford was around 3 feet in height and 2 feet in width. He had two petite but burly arms that both served as his primary means of causing discomfort on others. This was made especially clear when he uprooted the life from a local gnome with a gardening shovel. He did not take the time to pile the pieces before he left.
One day, after Oxford had been busily busying businesses with certain fires which he gleefully took credit for, the friendly neighborhood deputy came to discuss whether or not our dwarf had been involved in the untimely demise of the sheriff. However, upon arrival the deputy was surprise to be greeted by the blunt, yet ever so penetrating smack of a pickaxe to his face. Had he been living longer then that moment he no doubt would have taken this as an offensive greeting from dear Oxford, but as is not the case no such thought crossed his mind after the pickaxe did.
At this point in the tale I am going to assume that readers are scratching their heads in bewilderment as to why Oxford is the character he is, and it would not be surprising to be equally interested in why the author chose to fashion a character as such. The answer is one of finite simplicity, and that is this. There is no purpose, there is no reason. The only thing that exists in this life is Oxford, and you are him. ZOMG!
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