GENOCIDE BIOGRAPHY
I have a saying that goes, "What you can not see is what you really want, and strangely it usually wants you too." It fits for a lot of things. My father died when I was a boy. Six years old, maybe seven. I think it was the month I turned seven. He said he was trying to stay. To be there when my big day came. He didn't try hard enough. 'You're not praying for her!' He says. Like it would take only that to remedy everything. She left yesterday without saying much towards the inevitable fact of paying her portion of the rent due in a day or so. It was early the morning before that I had heard her and Joe, the man she sees, talking. Talking about me and the things they thought they could get from me. She was cold. She'd grown angry at the world, or maybe just me and men who reminded her of who she'd known before. My name is Elliot Hubbert. I like dead men and what they whisper, chant and beguile me with. I write short essays about the plains indians and the men who killed them or drove them beyond their homeland. I write about death and cruelty. Men who serve evil for causes unknown to me, a man like many others. A modern man seeking answers, corrections, justice. I seek reason and truth, though the former supersedes most things with it's elusive nature. I find truth in abundance. Who's eyes that see it and carry it's weight are those who create the scenery for our closing century. What we find before we shall invariably fall into again. The events I research are difficult in that they were recorded by those who sought to destroy the subject. Almost always prose is decidedly leaning toward war as divine when 'devils in human form' are the wicked. Men. Women. Children. Murdered for one reason only. They were men who wanted what they had. Thieves and killers. America was built on solid base of fresh blood of innocents defending their homes, sometimes not even trying to defend but eliminated just the same.