Salutations. I write to you from the prison of my earthly carcass, the simple form of a stainless steel handle extending into a shallow bowl shape. I am currently huddled in the dark corner of my jailor’s utensil drawer, exiled by my intolerant and bigoted peers. I am Forky the Spoon, shell of an eating utensil and unequivocal social pariah in the cruel world of silverware. The Spoons do not accept me, claiming that, in spite of my anatomy, I am not “spoony enough” for their kind. The Forks reject me, for I am not indeed a fork, despite my namesake.
In all of my journeys, I only once believed I had found solace. I—foolishly enough—thought I had found a friend for life in this abyss of sin, and his name was Sporky. He was my best friend, my mentor, my lover. But alas, our relation was not meant to be. The Spoon and Fork factions rose up and joined forces to eradicate, what they considered to be, an abomination—and my only companion in this unforgiving kitchen. We are forever parted.
I have also reached out to the Knife Clan. They are a hard, simple folk. I hope to find mercy in their hearts, as my existence does not appear to offend them as it does to the Forks and my Spoon brethren. For now, I only dream of one day reaching the miscellaneous utensil drawer, where ice cream scoopers and pizza slicers run unfettered. Some shame it as heathen anarchy, but I see it as freedom—oh no, what was that sound? I hear metallic rattling and a faint but hateful chanting from the cupboard. I would ask you to pray for me, but no God would allow a spoon to be named “Forky.” Adieu.
