No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story.
There was something wrong with the self-checkout at Queen’s Grocer, I could tell. I didn’t know quite what it was yet, but I was sure there was something wrong with it. “Insert bills, or select method of payment,” said the robotic female voice.
SOP
1.0 INTRODUCTION
Somewhere in the region of seven-hundred-and-fifty-thousand medical files are stored in a remote warehouse leased to a well-regarded medical insurance company. The project is as follows; to manually re-organise each file into three distinct sections, digitally scan each section, and upload to the company’s state-of-the-art archive and retrieval system. The end result of this endeavour is to ensure that at the push of a button some drone in the Stockholm office or in the Buenos Aires office or in the Dundalk office may easily access a detailed description of Mrs So-and-So’s stool samples. Despite the considerable time and resources invested thus far in the project, acceptable progress has not been achieved by the company.
Jessica stopped short of telling Eckhart what she thought of the costume. "The horns need work," is all she said.
The email was welcomed, when it arrived visibly but silently on the screen of Gilbert Fitzwilliams’ computer, like the first crocus of spring; small, insignificant considered by itself, a minor blessing but one to be cherished nonetheless:
Birds were nesting inside the two ‘O’s of COOPER’S HARDWARE. I could see the mother bird fly in and out, she fluttered from one ‘O’ to the other—sticks and feathers and leaves occasionally spilling out with her back-and-forth movements. I couldn’t see details from the ground, but I envisioned her spitting worms and slugs—and whatever else birds eat—into the squeaking, pink beaks of her young.
To celebrate a windfall, Greb invites you to meet him at the Caffe Boho, where he informs you of his intent to blow the money on a month in Mexico.