"I would like to talk to you about something important," mom said, as she swam over to me. "It's about your father."
At first, I thought she was going to chide me for killing all life in the universe except for her, Dad and I, but when she mentioned Dad her tone changed, and I realized she was upset about something.
"Did I accidentally kill him?" I asked, giving Mr. Gummy a stern look.
I was confused. I threw aside Mr. Gummy. Technically, he was a blue rubber lobster, but there was a limit even to what he could do.
"Your real father was at war when I went into labour with you, and when he got word he rushed home and to the hospital. He came running into the operating room just as I was giving birth to you. He... he never saw the crate of oranges. The doctors did what they could, but he didn't survive. We lost track of you in the commotion, and then a nurse spotted you, lying beside the oranges. It seemed that you had taken a liking to them, and I needed a new husband..." she paused, weeping.
It was as though her words paralyzed me. "What are you saying?" I managed to ask, at last.
"I'm saying that the man you call 'Dad' isn't your father. He isn't really
a man, either. He's a crate of oranges."
I got in the magic bucket and sped over to our living room. It was unusually quiet, but the faint smell of citrus betrayed Dad's location. I found him watching television.
"My name isn't really Product of Florida Jr., is it?" I began. There was no reaction from him, so I continued "and you're not my real father. You're just a crate of oranges. A CRATE OF ORANGES."
He was uncharacteristically silent, and this made me angry. With a shout of anger I grabbed him, and started shaking. That's when I realized I had crossed the line.
If you like anything here, or if you don't, please e-mail firstname.lastname@example.org. Otherwise, what proof will there be that you were ever here? None at all, my friend. None at all.