It’s Ray Bradbury’s birthday today. Here is a short little something I wrote the day he died. It was posted on Bizarro Central.

Bizarro Central

Ray Bradbury died today and I feel weepy about it. He was a great writer. He valued grief and youth and foolishness. When I think of Bradbury I think of the fall and Halloween. But he died in the spring and it’s so obnoxiously sunny outside. It’s going to take all my souls energy to imagine cool, dusty wind, and the street covered in dead leaves, but I think I can manage it.
Bradbury is one of my favorite writers. I owe it to him to put my imagination into overdrive.
Justin Grimbol

“SO in the middle of autumn, everything dying, apemen turned in their sleep, remembered their own dead of the last year. Ghosts called in their heads. Memories, that’s what ghosts are, but apemen didn’t know that. Behind their eyelids, late nights, the memory ghosts called, waved, danced, so apemen woke up, tossed twigs on the fire…

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