the lives of the aunt
Visitors from the future or past, from somewhere that was never quite here. A street full of people staring into corners or up at high windows. Is there something special about the town, he asked one afternoon. Well I’ve always liked it, dear, she said. No he said, he meant was there something different about it to other towns. Of course there’s nothing different, dear. The job. The maps. The seance: his notes, a warning. Old postcards & local histories. Some kind of light gentle rain on things. A pier, sand, the smell of the wind. Faded shops and offices. Don’t plan for this. Fluid but plain transitions. Fluid but plain writing. No “truth” except in rendering scenes. No commentary in the voice. I’m telling you a story about aunts here. Aunts & motorcycles, the tall boy I wanted to be. But it never gets told. It’s the least-told story I have but I keep telling it day after day.