No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. No Kings.
“Right, yes. It’s assumed the Tollund Man was a human sacrifice, rather than an executed criminal or disliked member of Scandinavia. The way he was found—holding himself, eyes and mouth closed—imply a sanctity to his death. Now, what’s interesting is that his body was so perfectly preserved that even his last meal was left intact. A porridge, made of barley, flax, and seeds, along with some fish and—”
Tom had once done his best to convince Seymour to read digital books, even buying him a Kindle for his birthday. Seymour refused to even start up the small device. For him, a book was only a book if he could feel its solid cover in his hands, could flip through its pages with his fingers. Hardcover and paperback were both just fine. E-books? Not for him.
A couple, walking in the park holding hands could just make out the top two floors of the twelve story pre-war apartment building clad in pale yellow. If they stopped and looked-up they might spot his apartment on the southwest corner. The casement window should have been open since it was the first warmish day after a long winter, but it wasn’t. The one-bedroom, one bath unit’s saving grace was a good sized living room and a U-shaped kitchen with a spacious eating nook and a glimpse of the park.
On the drive from the airport, Robin changed her mind about heading directly to the studio apartment. Imagining slices of mango drenched in lime, she asked the taxi driver to stop at the Mercado and wait while she shopped. Chatting in her rusty Spanish, they had developed a rapport on the long drive. But she heard Frank’s warning in her mind: You’re not leaving your luggage with this guy, are you?
If Frank was an animal, he’d be a sheep.
I heard about the secret of Glasgow’s Gold after starting an office junior job in the City Chambers back in ninety-seven. They called me a GS3, which they thought officious, but to me sounded like a grubby Vauxhall. My old da’ had seen an advert in the paper. He had retired from the council having worked in the museums, and retained a few connections.
“If you get in the cooncil, you could have a job for life son, and a decent pension.”
Quality da’ advice. Always dispensed from a sedentary position, sitting in his chair in our living room, smoking his pipe whilst listening to the radio or reading a book or newspaper.