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This hierarchy nature has set: the seagull will get first bite, whoever fished, whatever was fished. Its menacing mew distances two black crows, left with a minor, resigned twang. They do stay, though. In the sand near the shore, something glistens and sparkles. Seagull swoops down, crows stand back; seagull grabs half of it – a crackling, snapping sound – and flies back up; crows can approach now, get whatever’s left. The sky responds by being blue; lapping waves give rhythm to a natural occurrence. It was plastic. It was plastic. It was nothing more than a piece of unadulterated plastic.

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Being out at night, on the bus, pampering the late hour by listening and paying attention, to those who’d like to go too far out, those to areas they know and nobody else does, Any night bus?, the driver’s at a loss, Never done that line, What street again? – Indulging in those who, because it’s late and increasingly dark, believe red and green to be daytime colors. They stroll in the sparseness of traffic out of side streets and into main avenues – now we’re talking dear city! It’s so warm only a T-shirt is good at 1 am! Streetlights are dim and reflected in the tepid cobblestones. – Although there’s always a car, there’s always a bus, engine roaring up and down, (quiet is never really quiet) those out at night still tend to be the most dilapidated of their kind, and you can hear them, oh! you can hear them.


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A wrinkle on the surface of the water, while the breeze also stirs the top of what looks like wheat but it’s not – there was a book in a village shop, Companion to the Flora of the Lakes: one would know now, had the book been bought. Photos; Underexposed, overexposed. There’s a majestic tree, its trunk half in water, its branches shading a corner of this little bay, green berries, red berries, white tiny flowers, and two wild ducks (approximation necessary) swimming by, their little heads back and forth, the water parted in triangles whose sides will always vary.

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Unreliable transport means that moods hang on the wires and tracks carrying it around the city. An interesting section in a new branch of modern psychology. The relief felt when a train comes in right after another and you know you will find a seat, because, in spite of the first train being jam-packed and the message saying “Next in 1 Minute” fellow travellers on the platform are determined to push at the doors and the big surge is stopped only by the loudspeaker demanding civility. We move on. The sky is moody today and the light, therefore, incredible when it suddenly broke through some massive clouds after a few stops out of a tunnel – where those who opted for waiting must still be – and into the open (public-transport fashion) air.


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He got a punch in the face because he said to his friend he was a bat, at recession in the courtyard. The animal impulse in this (un)usual kid fight, the species gathered round to witness. And now mom is trying her best in discipline-&-living-together parenting, although, well, it’s funny because “why a bat?”, the 5-year-old replies that she used it, to dad, once. “Really?” Surely no adult would… “Yes, in the car, to the airport.” “Sweety, I probably said rat.” “Daddy a rat?” “It’s a long story. Forget it.” Pause. “Rats are cute. Jamie is a bat.”

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“Now, we’ve got to be quick, and silent.” “I want to stay out more.” “The curfew!” (which had, already, tolled the knell of parting day.) No one could be out. He was, in theory, patrolling the streets, dark, tasting the sea close by. Spring breezed through the alleys near the port. The two were heard; He tracked them down, drunk, one intention only. “We’ve got to run faster.” They got home, big wooden door, which he started banging on, ordering to come out. The girl was rushed upstairs, the aunt lingered by the door to bolt it with her own person. He had liked the freshness of the girl and her white flappy skirt. One gun shot, as if straight through the wood he could see, by the periodical beam flashing from the lighthouse. The stars were out. And the aunt fell, the girl saw, gone. He left, young, lurching through the night with a warm gun.

The Nazis and The Pig


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The two employees looked down at the avenue stretching before them, a straight mile or so, at the feet and wheels cutting it perpendicularly. Smoking, small-talking, their eyes suddenly caught a young man with a briefcase (A scholar!) walking up the avenue in between its hedges and parked vehicles; he looked up – they looked away, hiding from each other and him the hope that the light-blue briefcase would reveal a soul interested in archives, so surprising when they had people come in, so annihilating when the dusty shelves stood untouched for days on end. The young man reached the steps leading to the massive columns of the National Archives building, opened his briefcase (A folder? Some files?), and sat down (A book! He’s reading! “Wonderful sunny day, huh?”) Last puff, cigarettes out, backs to the avenue, flags on their poles swinging in the glass doors closing shut.