Every now and then you come across horrible stories. Like today's on the shooting in Florida. And this one mirrors a story I've recently read. Not verbatim. But there are enough coincidences.
The story I'm reminded of is by Flannery O'Connor, a 1950s southern writer known for some rather dark tales (of note: the link I've provided classifies O'Connor as Southern Gothic. Is there a Gothic for each of the four cardinal directions? Or does it eventually break into states, like Idaho Gothic? This is why I need an MFA, to answer these questions). If you haven't read her, I recommend the selected readings on the right -- excellent work. She's a bit of a paradox, but very interesting.
Anyway, the story I'm referencing here is: A Good Man is Hard to Find. Rather outstanding, I must say; in light of the news, rather scary.
The thing of it is: does life imitate art or is it the other way around? It's the age-old question pondered by the pre-Socratic, and, alas, has no answer. Also an age-old question with no answer: Where's Waldo?
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