When the very old man was a very young man, he discovered a bucket brimming with time, clear as rain and heavy as gold, but in his haste to secure it from greedy marauders skulking among the dawn’s shadows, he tripped and tumbled and spilled its contents onto the parched soil above which the scorching sun, thirsting for sacrifice, rose and lapped the offering like cream.
He wept, and the sun drank again, withering the man where he stood.
My Name was Supposed to be Elizabeth Ann 