I think of the children who will never know, intuitively, that a flower is a plant’s way of making love, or what silence sounds like, or that trees breathe out what we breathe in.
Subscribe and Save up to 55%
Matthew Meade lives near Chicago and is a fiction writer, occasional music blogger, and stay-at-home dad who — he’s embarrassed to admit — misspelled his son’s name on his birth certificate. His fiction has appeared in The Rag and Niteblade: Fantasy and Horror Magazine. He covers the camera on his computer with duct tape in case “they” are watching.
I had been coming to the Nite Owl almost every day, because it was the only place I could get my research done. It was nice of my sister to put me up in her apartment and everything, but living with her was making it difficult to continue looking for the Pattern, because her television didn’t work. I’d tried the electronics store, but they’d gotten wise to me real quick. The only place I could watch free cable TV for as long as I wanted was that diner where pretty much no one ever came.