He lit a cigarette. The small fire agreed to live for a while, the way everything here did — provisionally, and watching the door. Flick ash and raindrop. A siren screamed the alley red and blue. He stepped back into the dark and joined his cigarette in its watching.
Some doors wait. This one had been threshold patient all night, and he found he could match it — let the hours stand open beside him, going nowhere, the way the rain kept not quite falling.
goddammit.
Jacobs back already, the sandwich arriving before he did.
nothing?
Ellison let the cigarette do his talking for him in drag and exhale.
new mexico…
Mouth full to bursting, the syllables shoving past it.
the desert is supposed to be dry, innit?
arizona.
howzat?
arizona. flagstaff. as in: not desert.
Deli-paper crinkle as it skittered to the corner. A belch announcing that dinner was done.
thought arizona was all desert. you yanks canna make up your mind.
Ellison let the wet pavement and cigarette answer in hiss.
Jacobs opened his mouth to say something. No cards left.
He did, however, sport a new hole in his forehead.
The door had wearied of staying shut. Someone stepped through, did the necessary thing, and the alley went back to being an alley.
I’m trying out something new, uncertain if I will continue adding to it. We’ll have to see if it still feels good when I get around to writing more.
Assuming I do.
There is a lot of very carefully designed structure in this piece and I hope that it not only holds, but lands right as well. I’m purposefully writing in an uncomfortable style for me to see what happens when I do. The framing rules I used are easy to hit “fail-states” with — underdone, they seem weak; played too freely and they seem excessive in short order.
Thanks for reading.
