Author Bryan M. Powell

He stood, looking down upon me, his warm eyes full of compassion. Were it not for his age, one would have thought the tremble in his voice was for me. Maybe it was. It should have been.  I could have lived a thousand years before hearing what he said next, but then, I expected it. I’d seen the symptoms; I knew in my heart what he’d say was true. Bracing myself, I tried to think; maybe it was a dream, maybe this was some crazy person’s wild imagination. Maybe it was mine.  Was I a character in my own story? My heart quickened at the thought. I’d heard about being one with nature, was it possible to be one with your book, your story your characters? If so, who was I? Was I the villain like Snidely Whiplash? or the hero in shining armor? Or was I just a fly…

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