#181
“Oh yeah,” he says.
“Right?”
He stops at the rail, his hands placed firmly, his back straight.
“Right.”
She leans, her elbows resting. A gust wrests her dark hair from her shoulders and streaks it across her eye line. He watches a pair of distant tugs and she picks lint from her sweater.
They listen to the soft kiss of water against the harbour wall.
Seven Stars 07
She is the Rorschach test on your wall, the thing you stare into at night. The inky spread of her arms against the bone white. She gets into your bones, through your eyes, and she is many things, many quiet things, shifting and dancing in the night.
Seven Stars 06
The last man. For a man of such gravity, with weighted sight and grounded voice, his notions are high and thin. His mind is above the clouds while he wallows deep in the fog. He will always be the last man.
Some things are what they are and not what they seem. Where relationships are fickle concepts and time isn’t what it should be.
A series of five short stories with five accompanying illustrations.
1/5 Upside Down
2/5 The FIx
3/5 Huddle
4/5 Shapes
5/5 Signs
Begins 11/02/13
Appearing over the next four weeks.
Seven Stars 05
She could be the highest wind, a strong thermal on a clear day. Then a hand to my chest, lips to my ears. Mouthing out promises and a clutch of my sweater. I am pulled down: she is the zephyr on the back of my neck, all summer and humidity.
Seven Stars 04
He is no man. A nomad. No one walking the aisles and streets and buildings. Staring over the sides of bridges and up the face of buildings, forever staring, into the sun.
Out of the window a mad man drops, the nowhere man, the mad nomad.
Of whom nobody knew a name.
