Stephen Vaughn

“How do you write a memory? For that matter, what is a memory? A remembrance, a dream of the past that floats into the present on occasion? What are memories? Are they illusion? For if memory is illusion, then how can we be sure of what is real? Illusions are fabricated, sometimes they are an accident, sometimes they are pure deception, and how do we tell the difference? Do you start with the person? Do you start with the idea? How can you begin with either if you can’t decide on one? How can you write a memory if you don’t even know what it is? How do you create something that has never before been created? If we don’t know what our memories are, do we know what the present is? Do we know what the future holds? If we don’t know what memories are then do we know what the past was? And if we question what we know, how can we be sure of anything? How can we be sure what’s currently happening is real, and not a vivid memory being relived over and over in painful remembrance?”

“They were together, and that was all that mattered. The food, the house, the cars, the money, the power, all inconsequential. She would tear it all down herself with her bare hands if she had to, because her family was alive, well, and surrounding her in love. It was how it should have been that night, and it was the last thing Abigail thought or saw in her minds eye as she faded off into the oblivion and unknown of death.”