There’s no depot here, if you’re looking for it.
It didn’t burn down or go out of business. It just wasn’t ever built.
Trains pass through, but they won’t stop.
Hi.
This is where I’m from. It’s in the middle of nothing yet.
Maybe something is coming soon.
If you need a taxi to the next town over where the trains stop, you’ll have to keep walking. Or maybe you should run.
In this dream, we are all together. It’s December and I miss you. I am not going to believe I won’t see you.
Tonight, you’re just outside the front door, I can hear you. You’ve got on that tweed coat, the one that’s almost yellow, with the thin black lines, and you’re smoking. You’re so elegant out there on the porch, talking in between exhaling, waiting for dinner to start. You say something self-deprecating, make that sound like a “tff,” you’ve dismissed something you just said. You laugh while you set down your drink.
He walks to the pulpit with a slight limp; his foot is sore and the pain in his lower back flared while he was sleeping.
“Good morning, friends.” His arms spread in a wing-like way. “Today is a brand new day, a gift from God, a gift for us. Let us celebrate a new day together. Please join me in prayer.” Friar Sammie Stabby suddenly coughs with a palpable thunder; his hand grasps for his chest. There is a whir of concern from his parishioners, but in moments, he’s recovered. “Just my asthma, friends. Apologies for the alarm. God is just reminding me to be grateful for each breath I take.” His smile glows over the congregation.
Friar Sammie Stabby from Leicester is 68 years old, and he has been sharing the word of God for 40 of them. Every Sunday, in a long brown robe and a long silver cross, he climbs to the pulpit to preach.
“Lord Jesus, thank you. You provided the sun that brightens our morning and the very foundation on which we walk. We thank you for sharing your love with us today and every day.”
At 12:30 after the Sunday service, he locks the doors of the church and begins a trudging journey home, with his foot lagging a step behind. Sammie holds his back. It’s ached for years, and the years feel like too many.
A black cat, Guacamole, greets him at the door, sliding and purring. “Hi there, Guacky boy. It’s another day, isn’t it? It’s another bloody day.”
When Sammie Stabby woke up that morning, it was with a biting sadness. To the electronic chime of his alarm, he flung himself forward. “Jesus Christ, God forsaken fuck,” he stammered. “For the fucking sake of heaven, how can it be morning already? Holy goddamn, Guacamole.”
Sammie pads his way to the kitchen, sunlight sweeping in through the window, and the warmth of it sears his eyes. He is blinded; Sammie doesn’t notice the morning’s glory or the soft heat on his arms.
Guacamole rounds Sammie’s ankles, purring. “It’s a strain, isn’t it, Guac?” Sammie says, looking down at his feet. “Can hardly breathe a breath of heaven anymore. But, God deals us a fair hand, doesn’t he?”
The coffee maker hisses, then spurts liquid into Sammie’s mug. “You know, my hand could be a bit fucking nicer, if I’m honest. This isn’t exactly the ballroom life I imagined. More like a goddamn circus. This coffee tastes like dirt. This whole life is just dirt. Everything but you, Guacky boy. Everything but you.”
This pen is not for sale
It’s too active
Going places, and quickly
This pen is not replaceable
It’s gilded in experience
This pen only arrives as it will some of the time
Intermittently
Reluctantly obliged occasionally, only briefly
Unavailable for meetings
Won’t respond to All
Vincent was alone in his study. A lamp hung in the corner, casting light onto the floorboards. It was raining.
His paper-strewn desk, stoic and heavy in the cold room, caught only a glimpse of the lamp’s glow. Vincent paced restlessly. The night had grown so long already and he had come up with nothing. He scratched his head and then his neck, as though to jolt some idea to life. He poured wine, his hand shaking so much that he spilled large drops onto his serving tray.
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