Nostromo watched her reflection in the mirror, listening to the wall-mounted clock as it went tick-tock. She could go the longest time without blinking. Or breathing, for that matter.
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Soul Merchant
It was an unremarkable day. Just like the many thousands that had preceded it and the hundreds that would follow. I was walking down a busy street, mid-morning traffic lazily buzzing by. Grey concrete pavement stretched ahead, the breeze kicking litter this way and that. The rows of identical brick townhouses broken up only by the usual assortment of convenience stores, mobile phone dealers, car mechanics, fast-food joints, the odd gas station. But there, in between this parade of humanity’s finest, something caught my eye.
Dr. Quirkey’s Emporium.
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The Muse, Inverted
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, just get a move on, people.”
That’s what she thinks but dares not say out loud.
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The Daydreaming Dryad
The dryad is dreaming of different days.
Days under a different sun and wind-kissed skies.
Days when the world was young, unbound, and carefree, full of laughter. Filled with endless fields of wildflowers and of butterflies twirling in the breeze. She’s dreaming of trees swaying to the tune the old gods once breathed into the world.
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Dirty Minds Think Alike
“Dirty minds think alike.
I wouldn’t know, of course,” the man adds quickly, downplaying the truth lurking behind his eyes.
He swallows the whiskey — dry throat, sure, but mostly to buy a few seconds of respite and invite a counter-quip.
She plays along. Out of appetite, not because it’s the right thing to do. “So, we can add thought-diviner to your list of skills,” she jibes playfully.
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The Fortune Teller
The fortune teller sits alone, shoulders bunched, back hunched, forlorn, watching passersby, eyes pleading, begging someone to ask her a question. Any question. The question that matters.