This is the fifth chapter of my month-long work of fiction, NOV.
Frank (not his real name) is walking in new, good-looking shoes, cap-toed lace-ups. They sharpen up his look, add a dash of crisp acidity to the smooth off-whiteness of his clothes. He is almost visually fit to walk next to one. If he could keep up. One moves quickly.
He is also riding waves peaking at intrigue and troughing at fear. He is in a place new to him, following a person who was unknown to him only an hour before; his name is refusing to surface, words and parts of words are blinking on and off in his mind like broken Christmas lights or sliding around like magnets on a greasy fridge, he has no money and is increasingly indebted to this sylph of smoke and glow, and he has an overriding desire to play whatever game it is is going on between him and one, even if someone gets hurt in the end.
And then he wants to go home. And fill in the blanks. Continue reading