Growing Up Dead in Texas

by Stephen Graham Jones

I’ve never written non-fiction. Not even sure I believe it’s a possible thing, really.

You always look for the moment you grew up, I think. Like it’s a thing that happens all at once. But sometimes it is.

It was how I knew I was grown up: I had things inside me that weren’t for anybody else. Things I’d have to carry from here on out.

They make it feel more like a movie, what you’re doing. Like you’re walking into a scene here. Like your lines are already all laid out for you, your actions blocked out. Like there’s some director watching you, nodding yes, that this is right, this is good, everybody quiet now.

I never knew him, but still. Some people you don’t have to.

I think this did all happen at the same time, the same day, that one morning. It had to have. Sometimes life, it is a story.

This is how stories end, with all these leftover characters, nothing left for them to do. These are real people, though.