Your fingers run against the worn granite of the gravestone, wondering who lives there. And a voice tells you. And the names lead you on, for who was her lover, her father, her son? You wonder. You comb the broken walls, press the studs, touch the tarred-over newsprint for answers.
You find them.
Write the answers you find in the empty spaces provided for the lovers, the fathers, the sons. For Marble Springs stands barren without these answers.
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You pan out a creekbed, guard each scrap of gold, find all the treasures it offers. When you turn to leave, you find that cold water has laughed out of your clutches, gold-pinks of sunrises on gravel have slipped from your pan. Nothing is complete.
Winking at, contradicting, affirming one another, characters dance through the written web.
Between the edges of the known, the emptiness begs to be filled.
The writing has woven itself into your soul, spun new tendrils that call forth your own creations.
Stories prowl under possibilities, betrayed by sly hints.
It is always and only a matter of who sees what. And when.
When you write, you destroy, then restore.
The danger of telling too much lurks behind every word.
Return to the beginning of the Marble Springs demonstration.