A rumbling beyond the dork knob
Tumbled about on June 7, 2026.
And then there was a rumbling, and then there was a tumbling—a tumbling, rumbling sound. Nurdlebutt looked up, cocked her head, and pointed with her ears: The sound, it came from beyond my front door.
I hadn’t opened that door in 193 days. (I’ve taken to sneaking out through my over-sink kitchen window since November.) What could it be? I mumbled in my head. “Oh, what could it be?” I mumbled out loud. Nurdlebutt cocked her head at me then. The rumbling continued. I repeated myself, more loudly, while attaching a comical look of surprise to my face befitting a character in a children’s cartoon. Nurdlebutt turned, butt raised in the air, and sauntered off. I repeated myself a third time, loudly enough that Becasue sauntered into the room. To see what was amiss—what had gone wrong.
“Don’t worry! It’s not corn! Corn hasn’t gone wrong—not this time!” I tried to reassure my cornfed huzzey-muffet. (I was still wearing that comical look of shock, too.) She turned, butt raised in the air, and sauntered off, too. Probably go to play with Nurdlebutt, I mumbled in my head.
The rumbling noise continued unabated. I scurried over to my front door, crouched in a defensive position. With bated breath—much bated breath, mind you, I reached for the dorknob. I winced at my typo, remembering that my actual “dork knob” was currently in the pantry with the potatoes. I clasped the doorknob in my pudgy, pig-like hand, and turned—