Conditional Reality

Lemonade Hotplate was buried in the woods between two scraggly old birch trees. The roots of the trees wormed their way into Lemonade’s coffin and wrapped themselves around his bald head. Hey, said Lemonade, what’s the big idea? Go grow somewhere else. Leave me in peace for a while. The roots pretended not to hear him. They kept growing and poked into his skull through his eye sockets and ears. Lemonade was in torment. I died for this? said Lemonade. I left corporeal existence, with all its attendant miseries, for this? The roots trembled, trying to hold back their giggles.