Book of Lies.
Meredith is right: there are some things that should be recorded. They are dreams, though. I apologize for only writing the things that no one wishes to read.
I was in church, going through the contents of a collection box, looking for quarters and interesting things. There were strange coins and artifacts, and then part of my own hand, a relic lost there for years and strangely preserved: The segment where my last two fingers would have been, two knuckles, a bit of finger up to the joint. It was bony but still fleshed, tinged green at the marrow. And I shook again at the injury, and at finding something that should have been lost. Another bit fell out of the coins at me, and I thought the wound had grown, and I cried.
Later, I dreamed that I could have been pregnant. Sissyhips, who knows of dreams and a great many other things, so I knew I could trust her, explained that it would be easy to be sure: just reach up inside, feel for the child. And I did, but stopped where the cervix should have been, or perhaps just after it, uncomfortable at the thought of it, yes, but perplexed by something that should not have been there, the same hardness but coiled, a spring. I told her that it was unfamiliar and asked if it had always been there, and she said yes.
I was in church, going through the contents of a collection box, looking for quarters and interesting things. There were strange coins and artifacts, and then part of my own hand, a relic lost there for years and strangely preserved: The segment where my last two fingers would have been, two knuckles, a bit of finger up to the joint. It was bony but still fleshed, tinged green at the marrow. And I shook again at the injury, and at finding something that should have been lost. Another bit fell out of the coins at me, and I thought the wound had grown, and I cried.
Later, I dreamed that I could have been pregnant. Sissyhips, who knows of dreams and a great many other things, so I knew I could trust her, explained that it would be easy to be sure: just reach up inside, feel for the child. And I did, but stopped where the cervix should have been, or perhaps just after it, uncomfortable at the thought of it, yes, but perplexed by something that should not have been there, the same hardness but coiled, a spring. I told her that it was unfamiliar and asked if it had always been there, and she said yes.