I rub the corner of my eyes with my thumb and forefinger to get rid of any sleepiness and I stare at the window. I stare at the body that has now open...d its legs, one of them bent at the knee and falling outwards, the other straight, a hand, her hand, is missing the tops of her fingertips because they are buried in the elasticated rim of her panties.Suddenly, all thought of leaving the chair and going inside has been washed away. My gaze is fixed on the velour window.More fingers are lost to. His stories did not have much dialog if any, the grammar was often problematic, and his vocabulary was simplistic. The essence of the story, however, I found to be compelling, as well as his inevitable twists. Certainly something I could work with. John was not a writer, he was a storyteller, and I was happy to be able to work with him. As far as I was concerned, the stories were his, and I was a glorified ghost writer. As we made progress, he’d have a family member scan and email the updates,. More

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