By: Curtis Murphy
I was wandering through the night. I was a long, tall corner-cob, dribbling kernels like recycled paint. My hands were wobbling, like pieces of meat on giant sticks called wrists. Yes, I was shaking. I had the tremors they used to call “shackalitis,” the syndrome you get from going into withdrawal from high-speed shack racing. Shack racing had been banned in our neighbourhood since 1978, ever since Ernie went over a cliff and blasted off into space, singing “Somewhere over the Rainbow” at the top of his lungs as he crossed the warp speed barrier. Scientists say that if you stick a telescope in your ear on a quiet, starry night, you can still hear him singing. I myself was on my way to science-land, crossing the cornfields of despair which prickled my webbed feet as I hoped gingerly along. I was going to become a scientist, the first ever duck-billed, corn-based scientist from West Hoglet. I was going to search for Ernie, and bring him back home.