# Fiction

I marched in a direction of which I knew not, filling me with a positivity that was only matched by its notorious bedfellow, negativity.

Here, the sun never shone. It was blotted out by an eternal fog, a white-grey sheet pulled over a town which had long ago flatlined, but whose body remained here, somehow forgotten and forever awaiting an autopsy.

Today is Ted Dickerson’s 84th birthday. Or his 4,534,119,982,103rd birthday if you count his other lives, which he, of course, does. Either way, he’s determined to make it his last.

pretend you don’t know me ... is that impossible? ... pretend it’s not ... i want to be unknown—

I absorbed nothing, except her last words as she stepped into their car: “Children are easy to lie to. You’re smarter than most of them.”

I knew your mother, she says and your ancestors all the way back, and she shudders remembering what came before.

There are no picket fences high enough, no hill too steep for your fresh heart.

last summer when you called ...

I’m from a place where tree roots are shallow ...

Years ago, I met my true love here. I was six, he was six. Now I’m fifteen, and so is he. He waits for me on these chilly winter mornings. His lips are cold, they melt when they touch mine.

... leaving the little tracks in the dirt where you can see behind you for miles what you left but not why.