or Deep South Rashomon

Biscuithead changed my life, that’s for sure. But that’s what people do, isn’t it? If we’re paying attention? Even if we’re not expecting much from them in the first place?

It had been more than twenty years since I’d picked up a pen. The pen had practically become obsolete, when you think about it. I’d always had the habit of dancing with two girls at the prom: Words and Pictures. And Pictures, being what they are, had pretty much taken over my life, the way a pretty-enough woman you meet one lonely night on the road can make you forget about home for a little while maybe. But then I found this website, and Biscuithead, a guy who loved it and words enough to spend the rest of his life reminding me that what I wrote mattered.

Fact: Anything anybody writes matters. Time matters most of all though, once you realize it goes on forever without you. For twelve years,…

Growing up on a farm in the rural Piedmont region of North Carolina, we ate a lot of home grown food.  Fresh eggs, chicken, fish from the pond.  And plenty of pork chops, spare ribs, and roast pork BBQ because apparently pigs are easy to grow.  My family had some land but otherwise we were relatively poor.  There was a focus on food preservation.  Fresh fruits and vegetables were plentiful and correspondingly we canned a LOT for winter food supplies.  Lots of tomatoes, squash, beans,…

Different lines of time and physics intersected at where I was.

Kayl had brought me out to see it.

"This is where you and the rest of your world is right now," she said. "And here is the direction you are going in." She pointed to one particular line through the snapshot of our universe.

"And what are those other lines?" I asked.

"Each possibility is shared by many other realities," she said. "For example, here's one going in the exact opposite direction of your ray.…