Okay, it’s a new month.
I have no idea where January went, but I sure know where February is going.
Nicky and Cheesy Mike over at We Work For Cheese are running a sanity-testing 28 Day Writing Challenge. I know, I know, we barely finished the 30 Day Photo Challenge, and I know I’m supposed to be writing a book (and I am), but it seems I’m taking part in this one too.
Nicky was quite clear on that.
I have no idea how I get roped into these things, tho it’s interesting to note that they always send an attractive woman to ask me; perhaps I’m too much of a gentleman to say no. Or single for far too long. Or something.
So, here we go.
I’ve not forgotten The Cephalopocalypse, and will sneak out the next part or two when you’re least expecting it.
Slide on over to We Work For Cheese (after you've read this first, obviously) to check out the other folk taking part. Hell, to join in too, even. The more the merrier. Nicky won’t mind if you join the party late.
But if you do, you’d damn well better bring some Roquefort for her.
There is just the clinking of ice in bourbon, and the dull drone of a static-filled TV.
We have nothing to fear but fear itself. The static does not improve the broadcast. The bar has no lights, but ancient columns of dusty light project majestically down from high, dirty windows.
Please, turn this off.The bar’s only patron rumbles his request as he sips his drink. The television is far to his left, but his raincoated bulk exudes dislike for the transmission.
The barman polishes a glass absently; his shirt is cleaner than the rag he uses. You don’t like this guy?
And if we work together, we can achieve anything.
Nope. He snorts this from his leathery trunk as his ears stir the sweltering air. No time for politicians.
Oh. But isn’t this your friend? That guy Roth?
Elliot glances sideways momentarily and seems to give the TV a closer look. Or perhaps he’s just chewing ice, a film noir voice-over running in his head.
No, it’s just some muppet in a suit spouting cheesy clichés.
Oh. The barman coughs. Well, you can understand my confusion, right?
And if you love someone, set them free.
The TV and clicks it off via remote control. Same again?
The elephant's sign is long and deep. Ice cubes tinkle in the empty glass, and out in the desert, a bloody-beaked crow caws over his prize.
Please. And one for yourself.
This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2013