Thursday, May 11, 2017

Chicken Scratch

The first things I wrote were hard. Touching the words would give you splinters. Tumbleweeds blew through. Then the locusts came.

Later everything softened. Think of watercolor. The words became porous. I became that way too. It wasn't like things were necessarily better. But I did have a bigger bank of words and colors for it - for you.

I thought about doing some new writing about what you said and what happened. I didn't. Not everything needs to be written down.

Now you're wondering if it's you. The question hangs out there between us. That's fair. If I were you I'd do that too.

In the end, it doesn't matter. Not really. It is about somebody. But in a way it could be about anyone.

From the archives:
The Hatchet Job

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