Where do stories come from?

Semi-fiction? A world of superpositions, where stories are there and not there, memorable and not memorable, incriminating and exculpating.

Flitting between the minds of people, between their bodies, it strings palpable threads of dissociation between histories. It is the infinite tongue, an all-spoken, vortices dumped into eternities by anastomosing streams of consciousness parted by ancient providence. It is where women and men are both made, where the idea of a child is first conceived.

Semi-fiction is an osmotic barrier separating not fact from fiction but the real from the could-have-beens, and they are infinite.

Looking at the Lady in the Third House, tending to her parrots, their seed-strewn cages, letting the birds out for a short "walk" as she watches them climb up the stunted clothesline-pole, flanked by a vague memory of wings long since clipped, I see... fear. I see jets of green and red streaking past her slumped shoulders. I see triumph in the momentary stillness between silencing surprise and the agony of seeing slaves freed. I see freedom in a bereaved master, in the days of loneliness she must now spend, her dog unleashed, her parrots magically returned to the skies.

Here is a story of a specious happiness that devoured voiceless freedoms even while being wary of a deaf world.

Perhaps there is that someone, somewhere, slipping an emaciated arm up into the staggered space between falling rain droplets and clicking dry worlds into life, another crashing through a canopy after another in an overgrown deciduous rain-forest somewhere and dreaming up a sea of amassed petals to land safely on, another flying away and away from Earth and yet still drawing closer and closer to home, a sight not glimpsed by the stark, commonplace mind, reserved as it is for the invited adventurous.

Tell me, where else do stories come from? Not from warm embraces nor hands held against hearthstone fires but from half-truths, precarious steps taken forward at the behest of whims and fantasies. Fact is fiction is fact is fiction. The great is not the better good but simply the stumbling one, just like the unborn, the disborn, and even the malborn.