lost prose

"...My parents were both from Maryland. They moved south like the Canada geese one particularly miserable winter. They never looked back. The weather was so warm in Fort Worth. The winter was only a couple days of freezing rain now and then. The summer filled the sky with a perfect blue light, and a heat that was so refreshing after working all day in some freezing, air conditioned office building.

I was born in Maryland, but I was raised in Texas. I moved to Dallas right after I graduated from college because I had a job in Carrollton, north of the city. I thought it was kind of weird living in the city and commuting to a suburb to work, but the urban sprawl had gotten so mixed up by now with all those open fields around Dallas and Fort Worth that you never knew what to expect in all those swallowed suburbs adjusting their taxes to attract the business to build more revenue and better roads and better businesses until the city was mostly rotten and the suburbs was where everyone lived and worked...

...One time, I saw a werewolf once, digging through a dumpster in downtown Haltom City, on two legs with forepaws that could have passed for hands if it wasn’t for the hair and long claws. I saw an alien spaceship flying through the night sky over Richardson. I don’t know what the fuck aliens are doing in Richardson, but I guess no one would notice them in that beat up little burg."

some stories die. most stories die. all stories are forgotten, eventually, and they die too.