“It’s snowing outside.”
He didn’t glance up from his book, but replied, “Indeed. It most certainly is.”
A log in the fireplace popped and sent sparks dancing hither, thither, a mad dance before the log settled in and resumed doing nothing much at all.
“Should we do something about it?”
Continue reading “Snowfall”
“It’s just another state of being,” he explained. “Nothing’s really changed. I was who I was last week, aside from a few cosmetic trivialities.”
He took another bite of meat.
Paige didn’t know quite how let him know that it was evidently a little more than that. She decided on the gentle, yet direct, route.
“Well, Doug, there is the matter of the taxi driver.”
“He was an asshole. Tried to find the longest way here to inflate my fare.”
“Umm… you’re also losing your face,” she said, gesturing to his left side.
He grunted, mouth full and shoved his face back to the place it had been before gravity had claimed it. It didn’t take.
“Doug, I think you might be suffering from another major issue.”
“Whaff dat?” he said, as he tore off another piece of meat.
“I’m not expert, but I think you might be a little… undead? I mean, eating that driver’s leg kinda points towards the possibility you are a zombie. I mean, I’m really not okay with that.”
Doug swallowed hard. “Are you trying to dump me? You sound like you’re trying to lead up to dumping me.”
“Umm…” The gentle approach was not working as Paige had hoped.
She painted the sky with stars, hands aglow with the dust of aeons. “It’s the best medium for art, really,” she insisted, though the Raven didn’t need convincing. He’d played a bit with light himself after it burned him black. Dangerous, absolutely. But there was nothing quite like stardust for conveying vast, open space, nothing that came close. He nodded and winked while deciding what the next trick he might play on her brother, Wolf. She returned the wink. “Here’s an idea that might help…” she started.
I’m a bit frustrated with my longer prose efforts of late. Nothing seems to come out right; it’s like I am trying to speak but the words are all garbled nonsense. Instead, I think I’ll start writing the occasional vignette to break up the monotony of my cantankerous rambling and the entirely inadequate poetry I foist on you. Are micro-vignettes a thing? Or it that a redundancy?