"Hatred is my middle name." The goose said to the sandwich. "My first is Gregory, but that doesn't sound very threatening now does it?" When the sandwich gave no response the goose continued. "In any case, I'm going to eat you?" The goose did it's best to smile evilly, but lacking lips the poor gooses attempt was doomed for failure. The goose became thoroughly disappointed at the sandwich's lack of response. The goose became so disappointed that it fell into a spiraling depression.
Tears leaked out of the gooses eyes. Like fat raindrops the tears splat agents the sandwich and were instantly soaked into its sponge-like texture. The goose honked and wailed, running in circles flapping its feathers, like a cow gone mad.
[Only, cows don't have feathers so the stamen above really doesn't make any sense. The critic 'tsk' and shaking his head scratched furiously at the authors work with an intimidating red pen. Meanwhile, the author ponders to self 'a goose talking to a sandwich hardly makes any sense as does this sentence right here.' For the author had not yet received her manuscript.
The reader's eyes continue to run back and fourth across the page and as they do, their brows begin to burrow in confusion. 'What happened to the goose and the sandwich?' the reader ponders, and continues to read, for they had grown quite attached to the sandwich.]
Once the goose has ceased its mad balling, the sandwich sat motionless on the ground, as it had been doing before. The goose glared at the sandwich reproachfully. It bared its round beak and let out a low honk. Tried to at any rate, for a goose in this reality, can only honk loudly, or chirp so quietly that even the best of ears cannot hear him/her, preferably it. We want to be politically correct don't we?
The sandwich continued sit and, in all ways possible, not respond to anything the goose did.
"You know something?" the goose snapped, waddling over to the sandwich. It loomed over the substance squashed between two pieces of bread. The goose, lowered its long feathered neck so low that its beak lightly touched the sandwich. The goose sniffed, and smelt the salt of its own tears. Remembering the distressing events of just a few moments before, the goose's eyes watered again. But, bravely, the goose fought down its tears and let out one of those silent chirps. "I'm not going to eat you." The goose went on. "No. I'm going to leave you herd to rot. The rain will come and sodden your once fresh and steaming bread. Your ripe tomato will sour and shrivel. Your cheese will turn green and decompose into a not so tasty mold. Your crisp lettuce will grow limp. Maggots will come, and eat your insides. Aunts will take you apart piece by little piece. And here, you'll sit through it all, wishing you can moan in agony. Silently, you'll beg me to come and consume you. At least then it will be done quickly. But alas, I will not come, nor shall any other living soul. For a sandwich as evil and reproaching as you will chase away any being that holds a scrap of dignity."
The goose stopped there and watched the sandwich carefully for a good two minutes. It waited for the sandwich's inevitable shudder. After the two minutes came and went, the goose convinced itself that the sandwich had shuddered. How could it not after a speech like that? The goose was rather proud of itself for that particular monologue; so proud that when the goose waddled away it managed something of a strut.
[The critic continued to scribble madly away at the authors work. Their tongue had gone dry from the amount of 'tsking' they had put themselves through. So consumed in their task, the critic became, that when their intimidating red pen went dry, they immediately drew out a trusty Swiss army pocketknife. Sliding it across their skin, the critic scratched and scribbled with their own blood, wheezing all the while.
The author sighed, having chosen to not look into the future; she remained content with waiting it out. She'd already gnawed through quite a bit a nail and didn't want the effort to go to waste. After all, that is what's expected of an author. To sit and do nothing but fret as they wait for their manuscript to be returned.
"You know." The author said to another author in the author lounge. "I think I've done quite well. There really is nothing to be scared of. I mean. Why should I let one critic crush my dreams? I believe my writing is worth something, and if I have to get it out there myself I will." The author then rose to her feet and left the lounge.
This author, however, was not the author sitting in the author lounge who happened to have written the story of the sandwich and goose, but in fact they were the author of the tea cup on the saucer, which had gotten a very good review. So good that the critic who'd read them burst through the door, not two hours after the author had left.
"Wonderful! Absolutely beautiful! I've never read anything so…" At that moment, the critic cut off seeing that among the authors who had paused in their nail biting and toe tapping to ogle disbelievingly at the critic, the author to the cup on the saucer wasn't among them. "Oh, well they're not here it seems. Would you mind getting," the critic squinted down at the paper. "Mrs. Tea and send her in?" the critic then returned to the critic workroom, letting the door clatter shut behind them.
Since the critic had not specified who'd go after Mrs. Tea, no one did. None of the authors in the lounge were feeling kindly towards Mrs. Tea, and when the secretary returned from his bathroom break; no one felt the need to say anything. Thus, twenty minutes later, the critic tossed the cup on the saucer in the garbage.
Meanwhile, the readers, having given up on any consistency on this story, continued to read with moderate interest. In the back of their minds they wondered about the sandwich and the goose and weather the two would ever get together.]