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Stories give birth to themselves, they choose their own length, their own style, and sometimes it feels as if they write themselves. My friend June Huber, who paints haunting pictures of this coast and its soul, gave me a birthday present: six sand-scoured sea-tossed blue trading beads. I wear them with the crystal my sweetie gave me.

A month or so after I started wearing the beads, bits and pieces of this story started telling themselves to me. Rowan Hanson began talking to me, until she became more real than the 'real' people who live in this town with me.

I do not know if there was ever a village called Maklamaklata, I do not know if the people who came to introduce themselves ever lived there, I have no idea if any of the events in this story ever "really" happened
but I do believe Maklamaklata exists. In all of us; and I can only pray we all find that place and take our own kick at the can.