The Night Little Franklin Died

As Rod Stewart played softly in the background, I started to clean off the dinner table. The pickles were on the table, as well as the ketchup and mustard. It had been hamburger night, that delicious flesh of an animal.
Once the table was cleared, I poured myself some juice and cranked up the radio as Dolly Parton came on. I was swaying to the music with my eyes closed in memory when I was attacked from behind by Mr. T.
“I pity the fool, mama, I pity the fool!” little Franklin squealed. I laughed. I opened my eyes and saw the surrounding forest turning twilight purple. Little Franklin ran out of the room as fast as his little legs could carry him. I plopped down on the couch to rest my feet.
Suddenly, my eyes popped open. How long have I been asleep? My mind raced. I ran to Franklin’s room.
He lay on the floor gasping for breath. I ran to the phone and dialed 911. I knelt beside him to wait for help.
His lips were moving. “I’m sorry about the sweater.” And then little Franklin died.

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