He is telling a story, but it is not his story; it is my story. He stands on the porch like it is his porch, like he owns it, but it is the porch I built. Our friends all notice the spark, the magic, when he walks by--it awakens them, flatters them--but they still don't know my name.
© 2008 J.L. Steinhoff
Saturday, March 1, 2008
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2 comments:
I'm surprised how short this story looks printed. It sounded much bigger.
I'm glad AZ dragged me out. Your stories were really good.
Thanks so much for reading--and for coming to the reading!
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