Sponge
by D. Harlan Wilson

I met a sponge on the sidewalk. It looked like it had just finished washing a load of dirty dishes — pieces of food were all over it, and it was leaking brown slime.

“I am your brain,” said the sponge.

I placed my hands on my knees and leaned over. “No you’re not,” I whispered, “You’re a sponge.”

“Are you sure?”

“I know a sponge when I see one.”

“Are you sure?”

“My brain is in my head where it should be.”

“Are you sure?”

I stood up, placed a fingertip on my lips. Frowned. “I’m pretty sure.”

A crease formed in the sponge’s body. A crease that was a taunting smirk. “Well. That’s nice.”

I returned the taunting smirk before stomping on the sponge. Then I swallowed a handful of aspirin and walked away.