CANCELLED FLIGHTS

My Author has decided against omniscience and is not an existentialist, thought Derrick. It cannot be granted that “we” speak here, as moonlight splinters through filtering leaves. So I can pretend to be me. I will not grant that “we” speak, or that out beyond the side door of the garage quiet light falls wordlessly. Countless readers, you in one swell foop will not have to contend.

My obviously fictional existence, is it less than worthy?

Anyone still reading along, remember a wheelbarrow? Or perhaps a piano. Anything not made of silicon that doesn't float on oil, walk on on water?

He has gone to punch his computer keyboard. A smile passes by the side door. Pity him except, then, I might not exist.

Difficult, is it not? Or that perhaps not what is not – IS.

Recently he threw roses into the void. They did seem strangely real. Not much different than millions of other messages, perhaps like the last one you sent – just different words. Splintered shadows.

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Leaves drift down like people waiting for cancelled flights. The yard, “our” yard, is gloriously empty in the space of those personalities having settled into one carpet.

I look upon the scene. A tear falls.