The Story

~ As an iridescent glow set upon the city and half the atmosphere began to contract at the dozenth hour,

the 720th minute.

And on the forty-three thousandth two-hundred and second second of that morning; something was born, something was born into the sky, it was a story. Short and dense it grew to a size comparable to the amount of hormones in the high school jock that shouts

with intermittent value and novel complexity to tear down the wall separating the diatribe ricocheting  

off the separated locker rooms. As this story slowly heard more and more rumors of its existence, first in the papers, and then occasionally making appearances on Leno and other late night programs it began to grow at an

indefatigable rate only to consume the sunset placenta it was birthed out of. And then one fatal day it fell into the wrong hands,

the hands that violated a vulnerable keyboard to the letter, forcing it against its will to type up the memoir of a dead horse. It was later found smashed in a dank motel bathroom.