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The Island of Pico, sitting alone in the middle of the deep dark atlantic. The lost home of Atlantis? One mans journey to find the love he lost. Does love last forever? Does love extend beyond the Grave? Does love exist at all, or is it all one more silly dream?
Pico
In deepest grief and blameful shame
When pride lies dead and we’re to blame
We cast out truth and play our game
In search of God without a name
(Wayne Wilks)
As naivety is the blessing of youth
So aged wisdom births regret.
(Wayne Wilks)
Part I
He left her years before, his Pico, his adopted island home. It was so long ago, the memory fades, the faces soften, emotions grow colder more distant, yet still he remembers her.
Time does not heal all wounds, as some would say. Rather some only fester, growing ever more septic, debilitating and destructive. Whether a broken soul finds cause in the pain or injury of the wound or the loss itself, or by some inherent cureless fault within, needs be considered. For often within the wounded, those burdened with guilt, sorrow and remorse, a sense of perceived injustice or unwarranted punishment, there can grow and blossom a spirit of fault and responsibility, so strong, so powerful, so vivid and true as to turn its spite inward, against itself, towards vengeance and wrath, self-destruction its only solace. Nevertheless, despite ones opinion, one must admit that some wounds, while strikingly injurious to many, others find fatal.
Read » Pico, Fiction, Short Story, Part I



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