The author, or the writer within these writings, lived in Marble Springs when the town bloomed. Knowing that these words, this secret webbing of her life, this journey to the depths of those around her must remain hidden, she carefully wiped away any trace of her existence. All that remains here now are crumbling scraps of paper, a few quilt blocks, a cut-nib pen long gone dry. Speculations.
Perhaps she graduated from an Eastern women's college, moved around here and there, scrabbling for adventure outside the States. She might have revelled in the short bright summers of this tiny mountain town. In the day, she would ride out into the scrub country. At night, she would write.
Or perhaps she sought a cure for tuberculosis in the intoxicating air, the dark roots, of the Rocky Mountains.
Or a gossip, pouring out the lives of those around her for anyone to view.
Or a witch woman, hiding her thoughts, believing that a life hadn't been lived until it had been written down.
Or perhaps the wind, tired of bending conifers on the tall slopes.
Stories come down to us--in one hand, in another. Nights burn them into patterns on the sky. Children skipping rope shout them in garbled tones. Newspapers. Fairy tales. Whispers from dark closets. It's time you knew. And the tales spin secretly inside you; forming you as much, perhaps more so, than you form them. Write them here; place them into the fabric of Marble Springs, where myth has been retold so many times it has become the truth.