​David’s Journal: Descent into Madness

by Kim Reasor

We have been toiling for eleven days now, clearing the waste products the donkeys gleefully create as quickly as they consume their hay in the morn and in the gloaming. Only to receive baleful glances if we dare to pass their enclosure without offering tribute via apple, carrot or cookie.

​I believe they have begun to communicate directly with my mind via some sort of mysterious equine telepathy. To that end, today I was moved to build a large sculpture of a face out of their excreta...but not a face one would ever cross paths with here on our beloved Terra. Indeed, this face, with its large eyes and tiny chin, resembles nothing so much as the aliens which have been seen in the environs of Area 51 in New Mexico. I have come to believe that Milton and Stanley are using me as a vehicle for communicating with the mother ship, which they hope to lure to the Mojave so that they may be blessed with bountiful gifts from the small humanoid extraterrestrials who rightfully worship donkeys as the avatar of their Deity. Gifts consisting of unending apple slices and balls with handles that never break. I hear them whispering in my head at night; my wife says I am talking in my sleep and is threatening to take my shovel away.

Disclaimer: we love the donkeys and are just blowing off steam after a stressful day with our visitors, one of whom had a medical emergency and that’s a whole other saga.

David serenading the donkeys.