The
thing is, all memory is fiction. You have to remember that.
And, then, he went to his gun rack and took one of them
down- it was a good day for hunting, he said.
As he sat there yelling at Mother Ogre to make him something
else to eat, and barking at one girlee or another to get him this or get him
that, our poor old dog, Poser, walked
by, and out of pure meanest, Ferrell Johnson, kicked that unfortunate dog right in the side
of his stomach.
Poser howled and this girlee snapped.
The Ogre was sitting, cleaning his gun on the old grey davenport,
and laughed at the pain of ole Poser.
And as he did, I walked into the kitchen – the domain of the Mother
Ogre. She was busy stirring up another
batch of eggs to placate the Ogre.
Quickly, I moved toward the knife center, where an
assortment of knives lay in slits built for size. I drew out the largest one I could lay my
hands on- and moved towards the old grey davenport, knowing no one could see
me. Knowing that no one was looking
anyway.
Something, finally, that was wholly and mysteriously
wonderful.
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