The Enigmatic Harold Blue
“I know where she is Kelly, your little girl. She’s still alive, and I know where she is.”
The other night I dreamt of the dead, and I was with them.
It was the same as always, a festival of bad memories in a setting of false cheer. A morbid opera set against a background of foggy unreality. As usual, I found myself the reluctant guest of honor.
They greeted me at every turn, moving in grotesque, stop motion jerkiness, speaking unthinkable things in voices high and reedy, bursts of braying laughter, too wild for the sane mind to bear. They welcomed me with false smiles, cold handshakes, colder hugs. Everyone I’ve known in my life, family and friends alike, who have passed from this old, dull world. An uncle killed in a logging accident, a friend, two yea
