This is the twelfth chapter of my month-long work of fiction, NOV.
“I came crashing through the leaves,” Janet says. “The same way you did, I presume.”
“I guess. I was a little disoriented. I might have lost consciousness for a moment or two.”
They’re walking down a street, a different street, perpendicular to the other one. What is the name. He never looks at the signs! It’s a nice enough neighbourhood, feels central, old buildings, restaurants, stores, cabarets, trees in the boulevard. More places are closed now, but the night life continues. No one will hear the two of them talking, not because there’s no one around but because other people bring enough noise with them to drown them out. There’s not a lot of sobriety to go around.
“I found myself in a forest of words with a stack of books and a wad of money,” she says. Continue reading