Guide The End That May Never Come: (short story)

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Lord, May never come together again—" And perhaps never again, or not once in a to lose its scarf-end in the lake waters, emerald and rose of a fully-fledged rainbow. Letters and fragments like the short story 'Townie' complete the tale.
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He could feel it on his scalp, and the tops of his ears, which were tender, beginning to burn. He thought if he could just have something to drink—a cold swallow of spring water, or one of their Cokes—he might not feel so frayed, so anxious. Drops of dew burned in the grass, a hundred miniature magnifying glasses refracting and intensifying the light. Get your head under control.

She sounded thirsty, too.

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Not that she was his main concern just then. Her voice came from behind him again. Cal thought: A new player. Also Mike Huckabee Kim Kardashian He closed his eyes, but the moment he did he felt dizzy, as if he were standing on the top of a ladder beginning to sway underfoot. He should have stuck with William Shatner and Mike Huckabee. He opened his eyes again, and found himself rocking on his heels. He steadied himself with some effort. The heat made his face prickle with sweat. He had been standing in this one spot for thirty seconds. A part of him—a part he had been trying with all his will to ignore—already knew what he was going to see.

This part had been providing an almost jovial running commentary: Everything will have moved, Cal, good buddy. The grass flows and you flow too.


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Think of it as becoming one with nature, bro. When his tired legs lofted him into the air again, he saw the church steeple was now off to his left. Not a lot—just a little. But he had drifted far enough to his right that he was no longer seeing the front of that diamond-shaped sign, but the silver aluminum back of it.

As if he had backed up a few steps while he was counting to thirty. Somewhere, the dog barked again: roop, roop. Somewhere a radio was playing. The insects thrummed their single lunatic note. He had never been much for talking to himself—as an adolescent, he had cultivated a Buddhist skateboarder vibe, and had prided himself on how long he could serenely maintain his silence—but he was talking now, and hardly aware of it.

This is He was walking, too.

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Walking for the road—again, almost without knowing it. His foot caught on something, and he went down knee-first into an inch of swampy water. Hot water—not lukewarm, hot, as hot as bathwater—splashed up onto the crotch of his shorts, providing him with the sensation of having just pissed himself. That broke him a little. He lunged back to his feet. Running now. Grass whipping at his face. It was sharp-edged and tough, and when one green sword snapped him under the left eye, he felt it, a sharp stinging.

The pain gave him a nasty jump, and he ran harder, going as fast as he could now.


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  • It was the Kansas version of Dolby stereo. He fell again, hard this time, sprawling chest first. By now his clothes were spattered with earth so rich, warm, and dark, it felt and even smelled like fecal matter. The inside of his head buzzed, like a cloud of blueflies. Yes, stop.

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    A fucking duet. He gulped at the air. His heart galloped. They really were flies.

    Love Story Quotes ( quotes)

    He could see them shooting in and out through the grass, a swarm of them around something through the shifting curtain of yellow-green, just ahead of him. A dog—it looked like it had been a golden retriever—was on its side in the mire. Limp brownish-red fur glittered beneath a shifting mat of bluebottles. Its bloated tongue lolled between its gums, and the cloudy marbles of its eyes strained from its head. The rusting tag of its collar gleamed deep in its fur.

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    Cal looked again at the tongue. It was coated a greenish-white. Some of that fur drifted—little fluffs of it—on the warm breeze. Take hold. Making that voice helped. A boiling stew of maggots. Burgers that had been there for days. Someone had left them, walked away from the car and left them, and never come back, and never—.

    He stripped the snarls of tough greenery from his ankles and shins, barely feeling the little cuts the grass had inflicted. He stood. Nothing for a long time—long enough for his heart to abandon his chest and rise into his throat. Cal, what should we do? He closed his eyes again, briefly. It was almost funny. No, no, no. We just have to keep our heads. She had never told him the name of the boy who knocked her up, after all, and that made them sort of even. A secret for her, now one for him. Ah, Christ, now she was fading again. He was so scared that the truth popped out with absolutely no trouble at all, and at top volume.

    Sometimes Becky sounded close; sometimes she sounded far; he never once saw her. Occasionally the kid yelled for someone to help him, once so close that Cal sprang into the grass with his hands outstretched to snare him before he could get away, but there was no kid. Only a crow with its head and one wing torn off. There is no morning or night here , Cal thought, only eternal afternoon.

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    But even as this idea occurred to him, he saw that the blue of the sky was deepening and the squelchy ground beneath his sodden feet was growing dim. Not in the tall grass.