Edward DelRay was the last of the DelRays that there would ever be.
Prove it he told himself.
He had burned the last of his books that afternoon and inhaled the smoke of his imagination as he watched the fire. Now he took his melancholy out the back door and stood silently in the garden where a thousand lifeless stems grew, each one marking a future he had buried.
He was silent and unmoving but he screamed nonetheless.
Beneath the ground each strangled dream held its neighbour’s hand and smiled, writhing toward the surface and a reunion rich with potential.