From the Dead Story Files.

It was a rugged day– just short of August and mosquitoes and wispy dandelion seeds and a musty pollen odour sat atop the evening. I could head the beckoning of magpies and gulls, their silhouettes sailing across the sunrise-lit river.

I was standing in a darkened area of the patio, surveying everyone with my beer-clouded eyes and that was when I saw her, who was such an influence on my life even though she had no idea who I was. Had I seen her before? I must have. Her face was familiar to me, though only faintly, like a distant relative or friend in an old photograph. As if I had been separated from her for years after a meek chance encounter, only to forget her, have her name and face slip away from me completely. The memory of her had fallen by the wayside, tipped overboard, replaced with a barrage of livelier colours, tangible gifts, song lyrics from top 40 radio hits until she was disappeared entirely.

And yet, there she was.


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