May 19, 2012
By Anonymous

He was in love excessively with his shadow. It dragged over the long earth, raking the barren soil and never bending a single blade of grass. He walked to his job every day by the riverside, with the sun in his face, so that he could see himself, his reflection, and his shadow; and every day this odd trio made its way to a building that was well-shined but not particularly large.

He was walking down one day. He lived in a city he liked to call “Zhongxin,” the middle of the heart, as if it were a big and important place; but really it was a deserted town where very few people lived. The wind that blew into it was light and dry. In fact, to his mind, there were only three people of consequence who lived there, although he would never admit it: the chief executive, Miss Genea Anderson, and his most dignified Self.

He was in love with Miss Genea. Three times a day he made sure to send her emails that enthused over how much of a woman she was. “Genea, you are a woman,” he would say; and she, “Ah, dear, what a man you are!”

It was the time of the War of Grief and everyone was grieving. Mothers grieved for their sons; wives for their husbands, and Miss Genea for her country. “Oh, what an illustrious boy he is,” she would say of her sweetheart; “just like the rest of the country. Oh, how I grieve for them!” and she would blow her nose sniffling.

He was drafted but he did not particularly care. In fact, it made no difference in his life. He went to the War of Grief and did not grieve particularly. He came back and the country paid his college tuition; that was good.

Seventy-six years later, Miss Genea Anderson died.
He felt this very deeply. It was like a clump of dirt had been turned over or the wind had shifted a degree.

He died shortly after.

He lived, died, was born
May he rest in peace, a man.

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This article has 1 comment.

Pettigrew said...
on May. 24 2012 at 4:34 pm
I enjoyed this a great deal. Excellent work.


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