A Warning
	The penguin was staring at him again. Staring with cold black eyes that only reflected what they saw. It didn't move. It didn't make a sound. It just sat there. Cold. Unfeeling. Lifeless. Dead to the world. It reminded him of the bird in that Poe poem. Only this bird wasn't threatening. Just ominous. This bird was some kind of doomsday clock ticking down the seconds until the demise of something. Somebody. A demise that would be just as cold and lifeless as that figure with the dull black eyes. From the penguin's perch on the bookcase, the bird could see all as its clock slowly wound down. Until that clock stopped for good, all it was interested in, was him.    As the penguin had no thoughts, its mere prescence created numerous thoughts in his mind. One question dominated all. Could this simple child's stuffed animal see into his soul? Would this black plush toy absorb his past, his memories, and his personality? All the memories of thousands of days and millions of minutes came flooding back to him. The vacation home he went to when he was a toddler. The new home when he was in grade school. His first day of school. Birthday parties. His first crush. His first play. Friends he hadn't seen in decades. His turbulent years in high school. The day he realized he was going to be an actor for the rest of his life. His first girlfriend. His first kiss. The weeks he came to terms with the undeniable face that he was gay. The coming out. His parents. They had been dead for some thirty years now...    It was funny the things that you remembered. His high school graduation. The college years. His years of productivity. His acheivements, disappointments, loves, passions, and people he had known. His years of relative obscurity. His comeback appearance on a hit show. Had the penguin always been there? Could the penguin see what he was doing right now? Sitting in an armchair. Reading.    He tried to laugh his thoughts off, but they were too poignant and the sound died in his throat. A sound of a rusty door hinge escaped his throat, but that was all. The stuffed animal sat there, unmoved by humam emotion. If this plush toy could see into his soul, his memories and his past; why wouldn't it comment? He had spent seventy years of his life trying to figure out the meaning of his own life and the penguin had solved this riddle in one minute. That smirk creeping in on its thread-sown face; the careful nodding of its soft head. It knew. It had known all along. He stood up and grabbed the penguin. It was not fair that one could see and know all and his adversary still be without a clue as to go about knowing. He ripped the penguin's head off and threw it to the floor. The stuffing and fabric of the penguin littered the floor as he ripped it apart with the ferociousness of a lion. After the last shred of fabric had been torn, he sat down, exhausted. From his seat in the chair, he saw its head lying lopsided on the floor, observing him.    The penguin was staring at him. Again.
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