Excerpt from Heterotopias – now a novel in progress.

Mist

 

Rites and Purifications

A man. He wakes one morning and feels a lightness. A plan has formed. His wife and children are sleeping. Hoarse cries of his cattle in the field beyond his house. They are hungry. Dawn mist floats above the grass. Ghostly greys.

 

A gun. Blood. One hundred dead cattle. A man, skull shattered. A woman and her children bereft.

 

Do you want a story that stitches all these elements together? Pretty, poignant sentences. Something to paint the scene in beauty and pathos. His hand on the neck of the bullock. Warm hide, smell of the cud. Tears burning his cheeks. Shame welling up in him that he is standing here, about to do this.

 

Or a story that spells out how the state, our state, has sold us off, so many serfs, to the highest bidders. Our helplessness. An explanation of how the corporate control of money and our resources has ruined us?

 

Money is too dirty for art and fiction. Write about sex and beauty. A sweet little redemptive story. Smooth over the fissures, the blood, class, money, the truth of how we are forced to live now.

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