Month: February 2017

WORKING TITLE BY JACOB WESTLIN

I went through a frustrating plethora of freelance writing assignments during this period, with various levels of success and exacerbation — success in this case defined simply as not prompting murderous feelings of bitter resentment.

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FLAMES BY MICHAEL WASHBURN

Blake Purcell had led a successful campaign to force the municipal government of Sydney to cut off all funding for the arts. Now he was campaigning hard for a libertarian who might well be Australia’s next prime minister. On a bright afternoon in May, Blake climbed out of a metro station in King’s Cross and walked three blocks up Darlinghurst Road in the direction of a restaurant where he planned to have lunch with one of the attorneys for Angela Henderson, the ultra-rich mining magnate who felt rather ambivalent about the campaign. He saw himself, with some justification, as a slick front man for the campaign who might just win over the in-house counsel from Henderson Mines. This little day trip wasn’t quite what he’d had in mind. Public transportation wasn’t congenial for Blake, but he didn’t like to drive his Acura NSX within the city, for he’d have to park it where strangers might key the prized vehicle or do even worse. So it was buses, trains, and walking. Today, the clouds had vanished and lucid warm air hung over everything like a question mark. Perhaps it was a bit too nice out, for Blake had to dart and weave his way through a frieze of skateboarders with orange or purple hair, dopers, slackers, tattooed punks, runaways, prostitutes, and beggars, nodding at the odd businessmen or cop passing...

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ANNA AND THE SPEED OF LIGHT BY JOHN THOMSON

Jonah awoke to a gloomy sky. For a long time he stared into it through the kitchen window, thinking of absolutely nothing until he remembered to check the To Do list his father had stuck to the refrigerator with Support Our Troops magnets.

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A THOUSAND DIMES BY JOHN MCCLUSKEY

November meant snow back then, filling winter’s cup from Thanksgiving on, spilling over one day into the next, and the next after that, till the first flakes of November lay buried under layers thick as the great heaps of wet winter clothing discarded by the kitchen door at the end of every winter day.

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