Giacomo Bianchi was above all else a facilitator of human happiness. At least this is how he would describe himself should he order one drink to many on a cool fall night. Such was the case tonight when upon reaching that sublime point, where in the company of dear friends, one is likely to poetically expound on the nature of the world and their place in it.
Every city with a river bears it soul upon the water. Every deed, noble and ignoble, inevitably find their way to the water. The Nile had proved no different, at least not in the Earl’s experience.
Oliver Cranston was not as he described it, “refined”. This was a sentiment he worked diligently to reinforce in people whenever they saw him. Clad in a baggy cream Irish sweater and a pair of well-worn jean, both far too old to be fashionable, and topped by an uncombed head of curly hair he appeared more at home in the stock room of Hatchard’s Bookstore, where he had worked happily for the past ten years than anywhere else. As he passed beneath the historic green shingle neatly ordained in gold-leaf he felt instantly at home.
One of the great revelations Ford’s life had been that places were living things like any other. In good times they grew, changed, and evolved. In bad times they faltered, then when left broken and alone they would slipped into decay. For a while in the surety of his youth he had made the mistake of believing that this was a permanent diagnosis for both people and places. As his sophomoric years passed he had come to realize that should a place survive under any circumstances, retaining with it some piece of its true self which once provided it charm it could, it could in time undergo the same final rebirth offered to all things in their autumn years. When, vested with the countless memories of generations, even their faults were made hallowed.
The mustard haze of office lights coated in the collected filth of nearly four decades flickered in the emergency stairwell. Sarah collapsed against the wall, sliding down to the cement floor exhausted. Her knees pulled to her chest she curled into a ball. A newly formed fixture on the cold cement landing she made no noise, the reverberating hum of the building’s air conditioner the sole sound.
A road was an odd thing to remember from one’s childhood, especially one you never lived on. Yet for Tom Marrow the tight turns and rolling pitch of the narrow stone road down were as unforgettable to him as any monumental he had ever seen in his life. This was what he had told his wife with supreme confidence, his foot pressed down on the gas to urge the old sedan back towards his father’s farmhouse where the family waiting for Christmas dinner.
Niklas watched the crowd from his apartment balcony, their subtle collective sway an anthemia to the words which flowed with practiced lyrical grace from their lips. His fist clenched he walked inside shaking.
Marie was a pragmatic person who had only ever really possessed two truly abstract nostalgic loves, that of fall and of the early morning hours in the city. Both exuded the same effect of setting her mind at least in a way that very little else could. A few of her older Pilates friends referred to the feeling as Zen. A concept, like most religious ones she had only vague paid attention to as it flirted in and out of the public consciousness. Regardless after hearing their description she can to concede it was at least in part accurate. The terminology aside the effect doubled blissfully when the two occurred in tandem.
The smell of burnt molasses rose from the aging breakroom coffee pot to permeate the slender windowless space, giving it at least in order the feeling of the holidays. Steve leaned back into the leather desk chair, the weight of the day drawing his eyes down he found an odd comfort in the subtle hum of the old halogen bulbs that lit the space.
There is an obvious truth with which all writers have an ugly yet comfortable relationship with. It is alluded to in the cloistered circles of academia and screamed on reality TV alike, the secret to being a successful writer is to actually write. This can be easier said than done however, especially if you are just starting out or are beginning a new project. It is often benign enough, as one goes through their day full of the noble ambition of putting words on the page they find themselves distracted, torn away even, by the countless critical issues of the day.
The Flask/Pen 