Maybe it’s hiding in a grave, in the pocket of a woman about to drive her car off of a bridge or in an attic rotting in a trunk with a handful of hair and a magazine about cars.
Where is that story? When will it walk up to me and say, ” How do you do? I’ve been to Hell today and I’ll be there tomorrow and we down there are all wondering when you’ll join us. Don’t worry. We’ll be in touch, you can count on it as you know.”
Some of my stories grow in a shady garden, choked with weeds and flowers and trees that creak and sound like snapping bones when the wind sneaks through and the rains come.
In my dark garden the birds sing off key and the sunlight tries, but never quite touches the ground.