I was paging through the first volume of my journal today and was delighted to find this story, written by hand on February 8, 1982. I had forgotten its details and didn’t know whether a copy still existed. I decided to type it up on my trusty RNP7 and publish it in a way I couldn’t have imagined back then.
When I wrote this story, I was 17 years old. I’d been reading Borges and Cortázar. The name Vinukonda came from a small dot on a page of a world atlas.
Very good! — jvc
What just happened here?! Kudos to 17 year old You for surprising the heck out of me and pouring on the weird. Reminds me so much of a recent read, "The Willows".
Oooh, horror! Surprising and delightful :D
And I was considering what meeting Mr. Powell would be all about. Nevin never.
I suppose Powell is a sort of Godot.
I shudder! Talk about “being unto death.” Remarkable writing from 17-year-old you.