Fifteen. There were fifteen books about how to write.
Surely she had just as many on how to read.
How to interpret too. One written by everyone she ever knew.
Just not on paper or in a book.

She bought a fire pit for her living room.
Had a dream of gathering them altogether.
The books. The computers. The phones.
The people she knew.

Everyone sat cross-legged in a circle.
Their ‘stuff’ placed in front of them.
Each was handed a loaded .45.
A pen, a piece of paper and instructions.

“Write What Hurts” OR “Shoot To Kill”

It was a bloody scene.

Some shot the one next to them.
Some shot the electronics.
Others shot themselves.
After a while it was quiet.
Everyone back where they started.

She’d been watching from another room and when she came out was undecided about which books to burn.

She started the fire because it was cold then lit a cigarette, sat down next to one of the dead, picked up their paper, pen and began writing to finish the sentence they started,

“The factories in my mind that meet the pollution in the air…”