A story is never something you hear, something someone tells you; It’s something that is made, that falls apart from the end to the beginning, with each role taken by an empty vessle, desperate for a stage to sing from.
A story carries your message, what ever it may be, or was depending on what your reading; a kind a sudden wind that to you has blown from somewhere other than where you are and rented the hollow spaces within your eager imagination.
A story is the last thing you would expect to see, yet when looking happen to discover.
So to is this story, the one we have just been told. So it has been about the when, the who and the why, yet a patient what could not have been passed more subtley to you, dear reader, whom have taken apart, and a part of Maxwells journey thru the deep. And what of our hero, left suspended, left dependant of the fold; those simple cases understood that only now unfold? What’s become of Lessie of the two unfortunate Gees? What of Dr. Marcus who when last we looked felt lookers on that cramming into his space, would for the last bit never had the stomach, nor the taste?
We had only but begun to sample Something Maple in the cold, now however what could Be has stiffend, gotten old. And Maxwell, poor drowned harbor, poor dead sailor, poor loose end, the way he called out to the void for someone to offend, he now lay cold the body worn and sinking with a boat, for never really, but for a plot did he make it out of the mote.
And of the hero’s quest, that mission to an end has come, the three discovered, mussel flashing, crash of bitter bullits blasting casting out the storied fortunes now to seek revenge; you the reader undermined, and I the seeker, now unpinned.
To hear it? If you could? The star lit sky above him, like waves that flow beneath, poor Maxwell sails his life boat out beyond the desert reaf.
Categories: Matthew Newton