Photo provided by Aaron Seiz on July 24th, 2010

Not all colorful jimmies have enjoyable personalities. Most are devilishly cheery with just a very few being bitter and hostile, harrumphing about their days in a grumble and a sneer. The latter mocked and toyed, but accepted by the others in sprinkle solidarity. Then there was Priscilla. And even in their amicable judiciousness, Priscilla was at her very very best, unbearable.

You see, Priscilla was afraid to die.

And as founded or unfounded the fear of death may be, it has the ability to make one a completely monstrous irritant. Priscilla was a whimperer, a tittering tottering ball of anxiety, a crumbling crying coward. And although this did not fair well for her assumed occupation, it was far worse for her jovial companions.

There was a shared belief with her jarmates that they were being tested by the Gods, that if they could remain cheery and jimmy-esque in the midst of Priscilla’s presence, they were destined for fame. This dream would be dashed when a tiny tanned woman brought them home to please her her husband with her baking talents.

But not to be daunted the jimmy’s giggled and twirled as they landed one by one onto the frosting above the moist and tolerant cupcake. And at the first possible opportunity, those who had to share their treat with Priscilla, immediately pushed her off. Cheering and laughing the happy jimmies wished her well in her misery as long as she were properly out of earshot. But she wasn’t.

She landed just beneath the lip of icing, atop the cooling chocolate. Her muffled misery almost, but not completely out of earshot. Priscilla now took to sobbing, lonely and scared that her moments were numbered, the end almost upon her. She sat helpless and mortified in the shadows, listening to the others sing in their shrilling voices, causing the panic to push her further into madness.

It was late on a Sunday. Everyone had gone to sleep and the jimmy’s were snoring now. Priscilla sat, wide eyed, breathing sporadically, her throat swollen with fear when she heard him. The man, the husband, approached like a thief, whisking off the plastic dome and in a single motion engulfed half the cupcake like a giant hippo. The jerk and thrust of the ride from the counter to the mustachioed man’s face was so unexpected and delightful to the others that their squeals of joy drowned out Priscilla’s bloody scream as she fell from the safe netting of the paper wrapping to the canyon below; landing on the glistening linoleum, between the pomp of his loafers and the dark underbelly of the refrigerator, alive. And just as she went to breath a sigh of relief the lofty loafer, turned and butted her clean beneath the heaving mammoth of the clunking cluttering refrigerator.

Where she sat.

For 50 years.

Her muttering grew quiet as time passed, her mouth hardened and permanently closed as her body atrophied. Approximately 20 years in to her shadowy, quiet existence, beneath the flatulent dribbling beast, Priscilla began to wish for death.

She dreamt of an end, visualizing the last of a bit of string, puffs of smoke that flutter and fade, the close of a book, the roll of the credits. She filled her days and nights with images of closure. The small sound of a tiny voice repeated the sweet word “goodbye” in her head.

And in her little existence, the sprinkle who was so very afraid of death that she alienated herself from all other sprinkles, spent every second of every day pleading with the universe to die.

Until the house was destroyed.

Crossed off the map; refrigerator, counter top and all. But Priscilla didn’t die. She moved with the rubble from place to place, stuck fast between horse hairs and porcelain until they found a permanent location for her; somewhere in a state where backs are turned and land is cheap. She became just another speck in a landscaped inorganic mound of garbage and decay. Somehow she rested at the top, above the belly of the beastly land fill, her color now faded to a withered pink. She felt free, tired and free. She was certain the universe had heard her, certain this was a curtain call.

And then she sat for another 5 years.

Until a bird flew down and ate her.

And one would have expected Priscilla at the end of her rope, bird juice, broken down into so many little tiny crystals that the Priscilla the world knew would be obliterated forever.

But that was not the case.

The time she’d spent beneath the refrigerator, in the rubble and then in the landfill had hardened such that the bird could not digest her.

And on a sunny day in June a small child was shat on as he walked, hand in hand, with his grandfather who so many years ago, had slovenly eaten a cupcake and unknowingly answered the wish of a very young and terribly naive sprinkle named Priscilla.