The Young JournalistThey came in groves to see what I had done even though they knew nothing of what I once was. My face was different and they knew little of what had transpired while they had ran away from the fear of the frightful event. My limbs had no spark left in them to help me move anymore, but it didn’t matter much. Where there had been two strong and powerful lenses was now void of two endearing brown beautiful eyes. Only empty eye sockets with visuals gone and blinded forever more were left to remind me of what I had taken for granted.The wooden chair I was sitting in needed much repair. Two old bicycle tires and its axle had been attached underneath to resemble a wheelchair. Erosion had eaten away the wooden legs and so mobility was practically impossible. It didn’t matter much either because with wasted arms and legs on my fragile body, it would have done me no good. No good that is, unless of course somebody with a kind heart would come along and help this poor old man.I was sitting under the shade of a mesquite tree recollecting my thoughts when a beautiful young journalist approached me and asked me some questions. She wanted to know if I knew of a certain man that had gone off to war and had returned to the ghost town that was slowing returning to what it once was. I could sense that it was one of her first assignments and she was anxious to find him because her future depended on her story. She had no idea whom she was taking to.