No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. No Kings.
...I’m pretty sure what I’m seeing and maybe hearing isn’t exactly reality and is a construct of my own mind, I do know I need to take it seriously, just like the danger presented by a train barreling down the track at me or a poison symbol on a bottle’s label.
And the obsession just grew. So did the writing. Imitative until I found a voice. Just try and stop me.
“Connie, what are you most excited for today?” she asked.
Connie turned to both me and the man on the other side of me and smiled sweetly. She then looked back at the judges. “To beat the pants off of these two,” she answered matter-of-factly.
I was devoid of story ideas, so I turned to my then-eight-year-old daughter on our short car ride from her school to our house in the fall of 2019, back when we would do such things.
The crowd parted as we slowly and carefully pulled out of the driveway. A guy who looked like a Hell’s Angel banged his fist against the hood of the car, and a woman spat on it as we drove by them.
You jerk your head around to examine the pews. They are empty. You cast a glance to the balcony above the entrance where the organ sits. No one. You swivel back to look at the altar, the side doors you assume lead to the sacristy and rectory. You are alone.