The Story

The writer sat down at the woodened aged desk, brow furrowed nose twitching with pollen and the summer hay; the things to be said were too many, coherent in its meaning only to him yet he still remained a stead fast believer in the story.

The winter sun broke through the window, straight, strict rigid with purpose, purpose foreign to her since the day she was born. She grew up on curiosity and curiosity alone. Her parents were baffled by her detachment, made them doubtful of their lack of any and like most pliable, indecisive people they gave in to their doubt and separated to live equally unhappy lives while their daughter grew up curious and restless. They still remained baffled, she still remained detached. Then one fine day, a day that squeaked clean with promise and shine, she saw a sight, a sight unlike any other yet a sight as common as the other. It was a wall, an ordinary brick wall painted an ordinary white in an ordinary street at an ordinary place, all perfectly ordinary exceptionally so even and yet it was there that she finally felt more than detachment and curiosity. The wall was the same as it was every other day; unseen unnoticed and yet as her gaze absently set on the wall, it gained a new sheen as if to toss aside the dirt and filth and to shake away the grey and then she blinked once wary, twice in incomprehension and third and final time, all she saw was the same old ordinary wall. The wall was dismissed as was most things that made her pause and consider.

The story was hers but his to tell, for there is no greater sin than a story left untold. The writer was only that a writer, he had no part to play but to write the story. You may ask in all earnestness, but what was the story, the story was absolute and yet even though it was absolute, it was easily dismissed as fiction or myth or the product of an over active, whimsical imagination, for it was unimaginable for any one to actually believe that this happened, this actually happened to the girl who was not extra ordinary. All she was was curious and detached.


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