I really like my prologue. Just saying.
She always thought that it looked more like a bridge than a pier. Of course it ended nowhere, the rickety walkway simply petered out in the endless grey of the rolling sea, easily flooded when the tides were high. A bridge needed a beginning and an end. Or at least two ends. Continue reading
“Go to the city,” they said. “You must if you want to make it. Think of the inspiration you’ll find. The audience you’ll get!”
Inspiration is plentiful and dreary, audience though… not so much.
People are rushing by, eyes cast down. Sometimes someone lingers, having a smoke or staring into their phone, always far enough not to make contact. The wind is harsh in his regular spot between the museum and the mall, sweeping the tunes away. His fingers are sore, the solos sluggish in the cold, and the few coins in the coffer won’t even pay for dinner. Continue reading
She sang for her daughter when she didn’t want to sleep. Songs of beauty and strength and freedom, like her mother had done it and her grandmother before that. Continue reading
“Daughter! What is this?”
Tilly was dozing through the humid midday heat, curled around her litter, and jerked awake when the old vixen peeked through the hole in the metal wall.
“Mom!” Continue reading
50 years. Her grandparents were married for half a fucking century, and now they spent their second honeymoon on a mediterranean cruise. The card was from Nice, oozing sunshine and happiness. Continue reading
The surface of the slag heap is glassy and adamant, matter from the bowels of the earth. After the trucks leave, it becomes quiet. Continue reading