Cold with Leaving (a hastily-written, experimental, surrealist detective/thriller genre novel in progress) Chapter 2: Leaning Noon, Against the Night

I decided to check my mail. Bill. Bill. Solicitation. Bill. Bill. Solicitation. Unknown. Unknown. Bill. Newspaper Bill. Transcript. I opened the transcript. I read the part that interested me.

Williams: We were living off of a skilled local consultant sensing the urgency of the situation. The group-sprinting, a marathon phone line, its is a simple profile, bouquet and flavors.

Agent State: The Big Mac?

Williams 2: The Big Mac is a nonevent.

Agent Slate: D-brief?

Williams 3: The D-brief went like this.

At the same time screen
incremental in the shirts only.
Fever grips London. This time
it’s personal. Attending to ground-
water excuse to be a rested parade
in a booth suggesting a wealth
of rain with bright drops a bed
and a board and bars of light to
shotguns on the shoulder down
the curve where half was good
enough to separate you compromise
but all have none of it.

I figured. I figured a bag with a white panel for the struggle.

I stayed in the Army. There was a certain poetry to it. A left at midnight is pretty much the same as a right at noon only it’s against the night. And yet I would’ve died a broken fat boy in a high-necked dress.

The last thing I remember was seeing something about the rubble, a telescope orbiting over a future acquaintance, some light rejoinder entirely under control, lacing the Bentley and getting the heck out of there going west for an hour before I even woke up my head on her shoulder.

“Not just because the striders, stragglers name themselves after their own talking…”

“I forgot how to act kissed,” I said, the jacket from which all switch blades come over my legs, a crisp white enamel.

The outfit had a translucent roof you could smack a high-five through with precision with knowledge enforced by good schooling perhaps hoping confusion is more easily swayed.

“Finland was out of the question.”

A link into neutral, a cup of spokes with a lively sense of forbearance and mahogany sideboards. The kind of woman I wanted was roaring in my ears like a truck shamelessly out-of-control, a runaway without tires down an asphalt slide of a mountain.

That her. Off. Else.

“Where you came by car, know I came by fire truck.”

“Yeah, well I came by firehouse.”

You would’ve thought I didn’t know the system, that I had been too overwhelmed with all the compensated disarming that passed. Near the airport on that part of town they recognize the look of a smile of satisfaction. They said, “You handsome devil. You. Yes, you with the bolt cutter and the distorted door. You walk up and down don’t you?”

You? You or your Druid? A tool or a prosaic Plantagenet?

Him from behind the tree-drifting trails – and it certainly seemed like Lordship. In the fighter, the copilot nodding slowly then dropping and I had to turn my eyes back to the sky, a wall that could be the ground, the bench inside a haunted somewhere.

“When might I see tomorrow?”

“Wouldn’t that make a day spent up and toward trouble not at all through the gap between there. Wouldn’t it?”

“There is stuff to hide.”

In long silence after all the lurch of the Arcaro, a heavy glass procession, some light for places, eight the first two in the four.

“Court the ban on the northbound side Bartholomew.”

“You’re almost a scream, as if you’re deep red eyes even meant anything.”

Slanting elsewhere, headed without a word, a non-brother jet and help unscrewing minutes in the form of road.

I was cleaning up the concrete. I had whispered a refrain 11 vibrations of a fatalistic molding, the air on the more foreword adjoining

“I trusted you with portions that were – “

“Huge and delicious? Like ‘to button things’ in Latin? Did you know the logical moonlight enough to pick out the commonly crashed?”

I nodded. I summarized the foreign holdings. I ran a long finger down all the interstates and then went another dozen paces all the way to the end of the room where the lessons had sometimes been squeezed and wrenched and held underwater with 20 miles still to go – some control worked in the clicks

“It’s an all-board box 2 inches deep brilliant like this printed circle across the top.”

I nodded again careful not to mirror thanks, but trying the door open with my back.

“You choose a cylindrical part. They will be in doubt,” she said, then turned to face the turned-off and set-it on South.

There were almost parking lots.

“I wanted to build a second story to your Bentley so there is – “

“You’re going to get out here.”

The slim, the slim promise of her eyes along the arm isn’t all just about rasps and attention and less mass.

“You get copies of the sketch. Tend. Fine phrases, ‘Once like Brandy,” a big envelope you can put your waste into. It might get a little too suggestive, so you got to be aside underneath.”

Dipping in silence.

“Yes, be the shadowed desk, a paper from a Rosewood mouth.”

“We want to know who may have been the body, the first ring or Paulist, a whole lot of images and timbre and stepping out getting off the line.”

I would reach wheat, a little back clear into what as soon as I know.

“Give us some smiles, please,” I said hungrily, not inside green.

Now it was me against him, his arm around my neck.

“Your brother was the special stiff. He gets printing we get here-time, chasing you all day.”

I sat only to be replaced by a different old, by the expert reception.

“Like I think in counterfeit defense, touch down with the same torch.”

“I heard the way out waiting for you. The rest is now together. They, you figure a way maybe.”

“Maybe you thought you could just start brushing bees and your mother would feed me antlers missing the intelligent face and claim ‘it’s a hell of a thing to choke down, poor boy, poor boy’.”

“I’m not a can it tell you of course. You? I can assure you day by day.”

“You’re going to get out here.”

“So an amateur garden is it today? Your whole life or are we talking about the future?”

“You’re going to get out here.”

Who knows about remembering why? Who dashed the bench through the window? It had an edge to it written on his face. Walked over. Inside the voice, the footprints in nursery. The are and why, seemingly duped.

“Washington, you’d search an omelet looking for the eggs – “

“No more!” she said. “For the last time. You’re going to get out here.”

“Quite definitely. Quite definitely.”

The three of us clucked. I got out.

I reminded myself of a few things my father taught me before his disappearance. I have been glowing embers. There are no serious manufacturers of carriages left. An enemy starship a galaxy away is less terrifying than a boat floating in your drink. Casper is friendly ghost is white, but real ghosts don’t need to travel to Anarctica to enjoy invisibility. Whatever tissue floats that you would take, don’t. Other things.

And yeah. This was the wrong brand of needed desperately.

Which is why I desperately needed it.

With the NanoWriMo deadline breathing down my neck…and the fact that this is an experimental, surrealist novel…I really can’t tell you where this is going…but I can tell you that the above is 1,230 words…which when added to the 534 words from Chapter 1…makes 1,764 words total…leaving me only 58,236 words away from my NanoWriMo goal of 60,000 words.

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.