by Medusa
© 2001 B. Howard, all rights reserved
We have a story. It's a rough one-the kind you can't bear too toss because of a few glittering ideas. I don't remember which draft we are working on now. We revise it occasionally, with the vague intent of finding a satisfactory ending. If not happily ever after, at least not run of the mill. But mostly we just fill up pages of cheap, Dollar Store paper with incomprehendable babble. Sometimes, philosphical and friendly, quite often passionate, mostly funny - the inside joke sort of humor.
It's no fairy tale - our realm. Once in a while, you'll cook while I sit on the couch and drink beer. Jesters are more interesting than princes, anyway. Sometimes, we even forget we have a story. For years, we'll write a line here, a poem there with other characters. But those pages always scatter too.
And we are left, staring across a dusty manuscript, ready to stab each other with our pens. All for the sake of another chapter.
To hell with the fairy tale.
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