Author//Finisher

She woke up and gave her a name, following the track that led past the big, rocky outcroppings just beyond a mild stand of pines, marking the almost-end of the lot. She woke up old and auricular and she gave her a name: “You will be mine,” she said, “the highway at night, a lunatic in an old building full of monk rooms. The odds of seeing you will be like the odds of seeing any given fish in the ocean, as I am, of course, a person, and I don’t go down there much, you fish.”

And when this came, this her, the fish, the yard was empty and feathers were wing parts. Less a fish, really, and more the way a fish might move her mouth, she paused at the foot of the pine tree: “There were always two worlds, and so many more,”

“If you read this, please respond.”