Stupid, Bastard

There's a girl, let's call her Stupid (not her real name). She believes in the soft fall of rain on English outdoor pools, and in words. She loves the truth of their perpendiculars, the punctuated full stop of their delivery.

And there's a boy, let's call him Bastard (not his real name). He believes in scraping scum from the ochre-fenced badlands and in words. He loves the whirligig of their arches and loops, how they dissolve into storybook dust.


Do not let them meet.
Do NOT let them meet


Do not let her love his administered heat, or him love the curves of her cool 


She will have to write her own ending. It will have no resolution. It will be an unfinished work of heart.