A journal of narrative writing.
Sun Flares

The cancer we get was always in us, we're told. Sort of sleeping, we might suppose in order to sort of see it. I do sort of get it— as we age a thinning or thickening in our cells, perhaps, wakens the quick engine of a life all its own. We erode; such is our wyrd. Certain doom. Listen, I can't even tell you how the light bulb works. I do like how my tongue executes a quaint little dance in my mouth when I say the word tungsten. I know nothing right really, and I'm not loath to say so often in order to wear the wisdom of humility. Since we're all just waiting around for the cancer, my gentle message of unequivocal ambiguity works, whereas, for instance, no one likes this latest know-it-all expert who's glooming about how we should spend money on the power grids because the sun is due to spit out huge gouts of fire that will fry all our wires together, though I do enjoy pursing my lips and then baring my teeth to say neutrino. Apocalypse, apocalypse—O loosen up and sway your hips.