Published by Kris Coeur
Copyright 2010 Kris Coeur
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I’ve never told anyone this before, and I can’t really believe I’m even writing it down. God, I could’ve just imagined the entire thing, but I don’t know. Since I don’t plan to let anyone read this thing ‘til long after I’m gone, I’ll give whoever’s reading this some information about myself. My name is Stan, short for Stanley obviously; I work for the post office. The year is 1972, and I am now 35 years old. At the time, I was living just outside of Cheboygan, Michigan. It isn’t exactly an uncivilized section of the state, but there are places where one can be very alone in the woods, if you know what I’m saying. Don’t get me wrong! I kinda like the area because it’s out in the boonies. That’s part of its charm. Anyway, I’m originally from Cleveland, but after the waters lit on fire in ’69, I figured I should get out of the big city and away from all that gunk. I left my mother behind in a home because her memory was shot, and I feel bad about it, but what could I do, right? I figure they’d be able to take better care of her than I could without any job. I liked the sound of this place anyway, and I knew it was pretty low key. So, that’s why I’m here.