The Laughter by Sonora Jha

To Whom It May Concern: I was lying in the grass in a clearing in the woods and I saw a bird flying sideways. I laughed and called out: Is that a THING? I don't recall exactly what he said, because he was flying so high there, but it may have been: Sure. If lying in the grass like that is a thing. -Ruhaba

My eyes are dry and aching and my hand almost numb from writing, writing, writing all this down, but my memory of that night whirls insistent within my head, a carnival in which I am at once on a carousel and also aiming darts to pierce the hearts of red balloons. I imagine I have left my desk a few times in these hours, yes, as morning turned to noon to dusk. I know I have let the dog out once or twice. I see I lit a fire that must have roared and is now extinguished. I see crumbs of a meal of ham and canned butternut squash soup I must not have bothered to warm up. But my mind hums only with these people's story, which demands to be told. For me to succumb to any rest for my body would be a betrayal to storytellers of all time. Indeed, any reprieve now, before all of it is said and done, would feel like no reprieve at all but like an intrusion. A drink of water, perhaps, and then I write again.