[ WP ] Write a nihilistic story , only one where the word 'nothing ' is replaced by the word 'muffin '

It was Christmas Eve and my mother was stooped over the stove, staring into the heat-belching, metallic void. 
 
 `` What are you making, Mom?'' 
 
 
 `` Muffins.'' 
 
 
 She always made muffins around Christmas, it was a tradition relayed from mother to daughter, a heritage of muffin matriarchy that sat well in my stomach. 
 
 
 `` Blueberry?'' 
 
 
 `` No, just plain ol' muffins.'' 
 
 
 `` Oh come on, you got ta make your blueberry special!'' 
 
 
 She tried to smile, ending up gritting her teeth. 
 
 
 `` Were n't any at the store, honey. I was right. I told you, did n't I?'Go on Monday, there wo n't be any left.' Not with the holiday rush.'' 
 
 
 `` All right. But I got pencils on Monday. Like you told me to. Went to Staples, last ones of the shelves. I could n't possibly make the walk to Weis in time, too far. And it was cold. What if I got sick?'' 
 
 
 `` Michael! How dare you! How dare you joke like that! Go!'' 
 
 
 I looked at her. She froze, then her face, blotched red from the wafts of heat, convulsed and twisted. She snapped her neck around to me, stamped her feet, and, her face dripping sweat, yelled like St. Ursula on the stake. 
 
 
 
 `` Damnit, Michael!. Go! Go! Just go, Michael! Actually, you know what. Go to Jacob's room! Maybe you will get sick! Good! Get sick! Then I'll laugh!'' 
 
 
 I flew up a floor to my room; she was mocking me with laughs from below. 
 
 
 `` My son is a damn comedian! That will save us! Ha!'' 
 
 
 I flipped on the T.V. The advisory warnings were blaring across all stations. I went across the hall to Jacob's room. I sat in his bed. The sheets were cold. The undersides were colder too. I got underneath them, curled up in a ball and rubbed my legs warm. Then I untangled myself, got up, went to Jacob's mirror, looked critically at my face. 
 
 
 `` Open wide, Michael. Good. Say'Ah!' ” 
 
 
 The doctor recoiled. 
 
 
 “ Hmmm. Interesting. Mrs. Farthing, can I see you in my office?'' 
 
 
 The doctor took my mother into the office. 
 
 
 `` You see, Mrs. Farthing, your son is very sick. He is tremendously sick. Yes, I'm afraid it is that. And there is muffin we can do. There's muffin any of us can do. I'm prescribing a shallow grave. When you get home, I want you to dig a hole in your yard, call Michael over, then, very quickly, smack him over the head with your shovel, preferably on the back of his head. There ’ s a greater chance for concussion that way. And then simply shove him into the hole. Then bury him quickly. Make sure to not make physical skin-on-skin contact with him. Here takes these gloves. Remember, no touching. No hugs - I know. It's hard. I'm sorry, Mrs. Farthing. But, this is important, for your sake. And that's what we have to live for nowadays. For ourselves, to save ourselves, one at a time. Now, remember: No hugs. No kisses. Muffin.'' 
 
 
 
 The doctor patted my mother on the back, then quickly retracted his hand. He scampered into his office. He was on the phone with his secretary. 
 
 
 
 `` Watch out for the little one. And tell me when they've left. Thanks, Barbara.'' 
 
 
 Then, calling to us: 
 
 
 “ Dispose of the gloves when you ’ re finished treating him, Mrs. Farthing! ” 
 
 
 I looked away from the mirror, to the doorway. My mother was framed, with a cooking mitt on one hand and a plate serving the biggest muffin you ’ d ever seen resting on the other. It was gargantuan, full, textured, even speckled with blueberries. 
 
 
 “ But I thought the trucks weren ’ t coming again until February! ” 
 
 
 “ Oh! Michael! It ’ s Christmas! Have you forgotten! It ’ s Christmas! The trucks came! A full fleet of them. Crammed with blueberries, all eight of them! ” 
 
 
 “ Eight! Eight trucks! We ’ re saved! ” 
 
 
 She squealed with delight. 
 
 
 “ Now eat up, before it gets cold! ” 
 
 
 I devoured it. I took it in one hand, lifted it like a crane over my head, then, unlatching my fingers, dropped in straight into my mouth. I didn ’ t even have to chew. It flew right down my throat unimpeded, settling unscathed into my stomach. 
 
 
 “ And I have more, Michael! ” 
 
 
 “ Really? Where? ” 
 
 
 My mother drew a shovel from behind her back and swung it, slapping the spade on my left ear. I plummeted, fell to the floor, and kept going, through it. 
 
 
 “ No, mother! Not the side! The doctor said the back of the head! ” 
 
 
 Everything was ringing. I woke up. Everything was dark. I couldn ’ t breathe. I writhed around, shed the blankets, flew out of Jacob ’ s room, down the stairs. The ringing became more distinct. I chased it into the kitchen. 
 
 
 My mother was on a stool, tinkering with the smoke alarm. She didn ’ t notice me. She was muttering to herself, 
 
 
 “ Damnit. Damnit. Damn muffins! ” 
 
 
 I flew down the stairs, out the back, into the yard. I went into the shed. 
 
 
 I flew back up. 
 
 
 “ Here, Mom! ” 
 
 
 “ Michael! ” 
 
 
 I made perfect contact. The plastic coating shattered, spilling the wiry guts, and granting us a permanent hiatus from its symphony of rings and whistles. 
 
 
 My mother looked relieved. 
 
 
 “ I ’ m sorry, Michael. I fell asleep. ” 
 
 
 “ How are the muffins? ” 
 
 “ Michael…. ” 
 
 
 Her eyes were big and apologetic. 
 
 
 “ It ’ s alright. Maybe tomorrow? ” 
 
 
 It wasn ’ t her fault. There was muffin we could do. 

