Cold with Leaving: Chapter 1 – “May I Have a Deeper Chill?” Wondered the Pretty Blank Quietly

Recognized in a view to amusement, leaving every known instance hefted, a nation clicks into a new pattern on a grand road of hair dropped to the ground, wriggling, and then scrambling to its feet.

“You have both detectives and nearly 1,000 other canopy beds,” I said. “What more can I ask?”

“I want your right turn? I want your grace in anger? I want a breath mint tasting like the flavor of the terrifying sight at the end of the trail?”

He laughed. She pasted a radioactive waste sticker across several books on the bookshelf.

“YOU six months on top of HIM and ME swimming in all so many cases of nylon!”

All in all it was one hell of a knife used sparsely in that part of town, the rest of a practice place, the big automatic birds captured in her mouth, in much the same way as her eyes, all looking at Miami.

At Miami and him.

Him, a habit of 18 who tells, unthinking of the boredom, intimidating veterans on the bus, with promises of food and drink.

“Is this a safe throat to put my words in?” he asked her.

His shoe landed on the script, followed by a single sock, and several cufflinks spat from a hidden mouth.

“Checked inside of intimacy –“

Now it was my turn.

“Yes. Checked inside of intimacy chilled hands too late to turn fatalistic. God knows.”

“God knows? God knows what, exactly? We got lawyers. We got cars. Expert tailors. Personality?”

I looked at her. So causality, casually teased.

“It’s like old guys and gravity isn’t it?”

I pasted myself to the wall in the form of a moth.

“Look at you. You there, acting playfully noble. You, the exquisite silken steamroller passing through a decoy made of metal murmurs where there was no telling, no tempting no terrifying – “

I cut her off right there.

“When the spirit trance is out of focus, somebody’s knocking –

She cut me off right back.

“Yes, yes, yes. Sure. When the spirit trance is out of focus, somebody’s knocking
themselves awake. It’s all the big chrome fretting or worrying!”

Was confidence, was confidence like that? Like stealing stones, carved calculation in chlorinated water, phrases you want me to heave to, having no required response, most of the people asked, some half-remembered this man scuffling sold and set off.

Either way. She had me there. Solitude. It was impossible to deny.

“I’m not asking permission to rearrange your kitchen in the form of a carefully manicured tight rope.“

“But you are! You are! Jacket folds across knees! Grand mal seizures! ‘It was all fortune!’ ‘It was all fortune!” ‘It was all fortune!’”

“Sure, more like some fingers reaching as high as ankle height.”

The elbow in the TV was still there in front of him, the French spy, a Tall Dark Man the Same Guy with Copper Pans Always Sitting Forward Claiming the Cold in Front of Empty Fireplaces was His and His Alone.

“How Long Have You Lived in It?”

“And how do you know where I lived in Florida?”

I guess you could say, not everyone gets thrown from the right horse.

Or not.

Chapter 1 (and possibly the final chapter) in an experimental surrealistic novel in progress for NanoWriMo. Considering that it’s 11/21 and that’s all I have so far – 531 words – I really have my work cut out for me.

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