A story is a gift for a parting of ways.
Twenty-three years ago, I had a terrible dream. When I awoke, I was overwhelmed by a feeling of horror. The cause of which I could not remember. Caught in the throat of my mind were the words, “Genesius was a hate surfer.” They stuck. I held onto them too. I wondered what they might mean. I wondered what they might become. I wondered what they might signify. Another aberrant hope.
Farewell, Genesius, farewell. You were born of my dreams, fashioned in my words, and bequeathed to the page. You are mine no more. I’m rid of you. Cast out. Expulsed. Sown. An indigestible mustard seed in want of good soil. May you find what you seek in those who find you. I wish you well. I wish you well. I wish you well.
A PDF of the complete novella is available here.
MOVEMENT 