Where the Buffalo Cease to Roam

Arthur Mildwester was honing his whetted chops on the bone-dry intellectual fodder of another rummaged misfire of his milder disaffected bounty. “Hokum to your ho-hum.” Those were the sentiments he’d disagree to dispense with completely, if the mood suited the massé of his obliviousness. Or he could swish around his coffee and mumble, “My toast is evenly burnt, at least,” while peddling his personality around to any takers, of which their were none-to-net-zero at the time being. Constraints were his constant companion. Tortured belief was his bailiwick. Fingernail-clipping moons were strutting with raptured consolation in the drugged skies of hampered motivation. Yes. All was well with Arthur Mildwester.

It was time for the next paragraph of his life to unspool from the knotted yarn of the present. So, backward and downward no more. Arthur would rouse and rise, daily, in an effort-forward routine. He’d tell himself, “Keep that chin on the sunnier side, kid. That’s the stuff!” It accomplished (i.e., “did”) the job.

But what about font size? Style? Narrative distance from the perpetually churning out of story, story, story? Well. Then he went, “Blah!” Then he goes, “Meh.” Then he steps out into the vicinity of the real world.

“Arthur!” This was a sort of, well, arraignment within hearing distance from a woman who carried herself like she…