Frank’s

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Frank was a stout, gnarled man. Actually quite as you might expect a Frank to be. A little obtuse, a little dull, but jolly and sincere with a solid foundation of faith based on morality and love. I’ve always had incredibly decent luck with the Frank’s I have met. Only once have I encountered a Frank I did not at least like a little, and this Frank I am considering now is not that exception.
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My family used to live right on the corner of an intersection, in a small town, in the south of the Yukon. It wasn’t an ideal place to live because every single snowy season the day would come where we would all wake up to ferocious bangs and waddle outside in our skinnies only to find some lonely drunk up on the curb with head hung over wheel. Drunkenly accidents were actually such a common occurrence on that intersection there that we erected concrete barriers along the ditchline. It was all going well that year until one of the barriers sent a fucking truck into Frank’s living room… They were promptly removed after that incident.
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But thankfully that brings me back to the subject of this affair… Frank Munro. I always knew of him as decent but reclusive. A collector, a peaceful entity who simply wanted to do what he might… But that was about as far as my knowledge of him extended. We had him over for dinner one Thanksgiving actually, and he was very pleasant, very pleasant… though he was anxious I could tell. The crackling of the fire, the bumbling of my whiskey ridden father, it  clanging of the cutlery. Frank wasn’t comfortable, with the movement of it all. I don’t believe anybody else recognized it at the time, but little 12 year old me did. Actually I saw it very clearly, the distress and the discomfort.  Perhaps it was very apparent to me that Frank suffered from a comparable affliction to one I had; an apprehension to a noisy existence.
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The night ended and my family spoke of what a nice man Frank was, but with every mention of his name came a condescending breath of pity, of observed loneliness. I did not partake. That would have been cruel. Those comments left me a little less jolly so I folded my deck and headed off to bed. I continued to exist after that night of course, unchanged, simply being as I was without ever giving another thought towards my neighbor Frank. At least not until he died. Yeah, Frank is dead.
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I hope I go like him… alone and asleep.
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n

A Marvelous Affair 

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A few options he did have within that marvelous affair they called free will. A choice of residence, of religion, of retirement; all of this bundled together and toted about as a cosmic perfection. Thus this life he had so meticulously created with his perfect house and perfect wife had some meaning… It’s truly all really trivial and since he has shifted his cares I can’t clearly see him as anything other than an arrogant prick because of this inherent stupidity that went along with his material growth. Shoddy morality leaked from his every pore, and it made me feel sickly. I don’t talk to him much anymore.
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n