No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. No Kings.
I scan around the room, seeking Nina but finding other familiar faces instead. Doug and Klaus, everyone’s favorite couple. I say that sarcastically, of course. People are so jealous of happiness these days. Myself included. They’re practically making love on the dance floor. I try to support the bold act; cannon fodder for the revenge of Oren and the like who would see Locust shut down. The young lovers don’t care. Why should they have to?
Especially when you said “This one isn’t me. It’s something I’ve never done before.”
We exchange our stories. We tell each other what works well and what works less well. We make suggestions. We, like Sherlock himself, are sleuths. We look at the world. We see it for what it is. We explain it to others. Write what you know, they say. To know you have to experience. And there is so much to experience here in London.
After that, of course, he had no choice but to ridicule the mourners, mock their tears, as if the moisture on his own face were in any way human.
Jack finished the draft, said so long to Michael and left. Instead of going back to Long Island City, he walked south on Franklin Street. From there he went to Kent Ave into Williamsburg where he was glad to see the sidewalks were busier. A typical Friday night was underway. Near typical, he corrected himself. People continued to live life even after a crash the likes of which hadn’t been seen in a hundred years.
The church walls shining in arches, growing vines, peacocks, and vases.
Flip a card of power at Ravenna— that a battery comes alive—flip a card