They say nothing ever happens in Epic, at least nothing good, and maybe that’s why she left. People ask, “Do you remember her?” People are idiots. I was only six weeks old, how would I remember her? Except that—there’s this statue I saw on the news—a ‘reconstruction’. ‘Jane Doe’ they called her, and they found her bones in River Park—with a dent in the skull the size of a dead blow hammer.
“Do you think she’ll come back?” I used to ask my daddy. And he would smile this smile I used to think was sad and study the grease under his nails.
“You just never know,” he’d say.
You just never know.
This has been an edition of the fabulous Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wiscoff Fields. This week’s photo courtesy Roger Bultot.
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PS This week I am on the naughty list–at 16 words over the 100-word limit. My apologies. Thanks for reading.