She is in her mid-fifties. She is dying from breast cancer. If I met her on the street in passing, I would find her attractive. I could save her life, but I won’t. I will kill her for the sake of a story. People will mourn her passing. Her daughter most of all.

People die, love one another, give each other all they can, yet also lie to and cheat each other. We make fictions or histories from these events. Some of these fictions and histories get written. Others remain an idle daydream of the solitary soul who thinks about these things.

The sliver of the waning moon hangs over the prairie that seems to swallow everyone wandering either aimlessly or purposively about it. Nobody knows which stories will survive or why.

Published in: on April 9, 2008 at 10:19 am  Leave a Comment  

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