# Literary Maneuvers Oct '19: Write Using Dialogue Only - OR - Write An Urban Fairytale



## bdcharles (Oct 2, 2019)

*Literary Maneuvers October 2019

Write a Story Using Dialogue Only[SUP]*[/SUP]
~ or ~
Write an Urban Fairytale *

_650 words, deadline 23:59 GMT, Thursday 17th Oct, 2019_​ 
*


Introduction*

In response to popular demand, this month you will be writing not to a prompt but to what is in essence a brief: a request for a particular style. You have a choice from the top two selections, both mentioned above in the header.  As normal, you are to write a maximum of  650   words of   fiction.   Pick   your  own   title, write about whatever  you   want,  as  long   as   it fits your chosen brief. 

If you win, you'll get a badge  pinned to your profile plus a                 month’s access   to Friends of Writing Forums (FoWF) where you’ll      have        access to hidden forums. Pretty neat,  eh?


*Judging*

The judges this month are *bdcharles*, *luckyscars, J.J.Maxx* and *velo*. For those interested in judging, or who wish to know more about scoring, take a look at the judging guide


*Additional*

All entries that wish to retain their first rights should post in the *LM Workshop Thread**.*

All anonymous entries will be PMed to* bdcharles*

Lastly, why not check out this ancient text on how to best approach this task.


*Rules*




*All forum rules apply.* The LM competition is considered a creative area of the forum. If your story contains inappropriate language or content, do _not_ forget add a disclaimer or it could result in disciplinary actions taken. Click *here* for the full list of rules and guidelines of the forum. 
*No Poetry!*                    Nothing against you poets out there, but this isn’t a       place     for      your     poems. Head on over to the poetry    challenges    for   good        competition  over    there. Some of us    fiction   people    wouldn’t be   able      to understand  your     work!   Click *here* for the poetry challenges. Play the prose-poem game at your own risk. 
*No posts that are not entries into the competition are allowed.* If you have any questions, concerns, or wish to take part in discussion please head over to the *LM Coffee Shop. *We’ll be glad to take care of your needs over there. 
*Editing your entry after posting isn’t allowed.* You’ll be given a ten minute grace period, but after that your story may not be scored. 
*Only one entry per member.* 
*The word limit is 650 words not including the title.*                    If you go over - Your story will not be counted.      Microsoft      Word    is     the   standard for checking this. If you      are unsure  of     the  word    count    and   don't have Word,  please     send your  story  to    me and  I'll    check it    for you. 


*There are a few ways to post your entry:*




If you aren't too concerned about your first rights, then you can simply post your entry here in this thread. 
You can opt to have your entry posted in *the Workshop *which                    is a special thread just for LM entries. You would  put      your       story       there  if you wish to protect your first    rights,    in  case   you    wish  to      have the  story published  one   day.   Note:  If  you  do  post    it in  the      workshop  thread,    you must   post a  link  to it   here in    this  thread       otherwise   your story   may  not  be  counted. 
You        may post        your   story   anonymously.  To do so, send your  story  to      the   host of    the       competition. If you wish to   have us post  it   in     the    workshop    thread   then   say so.  Your name will be     revealed   upon     the    release of  the    score. 


Everyone is welcome to participate, _including judges_. A judge's          entry will receive a           review by their fellow judges, but    it       will not receive a score, though some judges are happy to let you know their score for you privately.   Please         refrain from    'like'-ing   or     'lol'-ing an entry until the   scores  are           posted.

Judges: In the tradition of LM competitions of yore, if you could send                    the scores no later than three days after the closing  date it will  ensure  a        timely  release    of results. Much later  than that and I will have to post with what I have. Again, please     see  the *Judging Guidelines* if you have questions. Following the suggested formatting will be much appreciated, too. 

*This competition will close on:*Thursday night 17th of October at 11:59:59 PM, GMT (not BST), on the  dot.  Please  note        any time differences where you are and be mindful of   daylight savings        time.​ ​ 





_** Dialogue tags are acceptable*_


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## J.T. Chris (Oct 3, 2019)

Little Cinderella (599 words)


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## bdcharles (Oct 6, 2019)

anonymous entry: "Trolling" (650w; language warning)


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## SueC (Oct 7, 2019)

*The Queue
*(650 wds)

"Next? Who's next? Hello, Michael. Come in and sit down. Would you like something to drink?"

"No," said the boy.

"How's everything going?" she asked

"All right, I guess."

"You look a little tired today. Anything on your mind?"

"Nope."

"Do you want to just sit together? We don't have to talk, if you don't want to."

"You say that every time."

"Do I? Well, it's true. We can just sit together today."

"Okay."

"I admit I sometimes talk to myself. Sometimes when I have had a really difficult day, I talk as if there is a person right there with me who is interested in everything I have to say. Do you ever do that?"

"Never."

"Well, maybe you could try it some time. Just a suggestion. Sometimes it helps."

"Sure."

"Michael, if you could be anywhere you wanted to be, right now, where would that be?"

"I don't know. Not here."

"There must be a place you've always wanted to go."

"Hell."

"Oh? Why Hell?"

"Because that's where I would belong, after . . ."

"After?"

"I got to school late today because my bike had a flat and Mom was still in bed when it was time to go. So I had to walk; in the rain. On the way, I ran into some older kids and they took my backpack from me. My homework was in it, and they threw the papers all over the street, laughing at me. They ate the peanut butter sandwich I had made myself for lunch right in front of me. If I paid them back, then I'd go to Hell."

"Do you mean, you'd pay back the boys who bullied you?"

"I'd kill them, kill them all. What do you think?"

"Seriously, Michael?"

"Sure. Why not?"

"Violence is not the way to fix the problem."

"I thought you said I didn't have to talk. Talk doesn't fix the problem either."

"Did you ever make it to school today, Michael? After the boys?"

"Yes, I ran the rest of the way. When I got there, I was sweaty and everyone was looking at me, adding a few more names to my list."

"Your list? I'm sorry you had such a tough day, Michael. If you need to cry, just go ahead."

"I cried then. I felt like a fool, getting to school late, no homework, worked up, wet and smelly. I'm a freak."

"Oh no, Michael, we are not going backwards. We have come a long way right here in this office, ever since the accident that changed everything for you. Just because you have had one bad day, does not mean we are going back to the beginning. Do you understand me?"

"Yes."

"Tell me about someone you love, Michael."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, is there anyone in your life that you feel strongly about?"

"Freddie, my brother. He looks like I used to look before the accident, no scars. When he smiles, his mouth is straight, not like mine that's all crooked and kids make fun of."

"Here's a tissue. Michael, is Freddie your real brother?"

"No. He's my stepbrother. His father married Mom and they moved in with us."

"Is he ever mean to you, Michael?"

"Yes, everyday."

"But you said you loved him."

"So? I want to be mean like him, that's all, so I can take care of things."

"Well, our time is up for now Michael. I'll see you next week, okay? We can talk more about Freddie then."

"No. No need. I'm going to take care of it before next week. Freddie's not going to be a problem for me anymore. Neither are the others."

"Good, Michael. You be strong. Find a way to get along with Freddie, keep your chin up and I'll see you next week. Bye."

"Bye."
============

"Who's next? Joseph. Come on in and sit down. Anything to drink?"


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## bdcharles (Oct 8, 2019)

City Slicker (anon, 645w)


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## Trollheart (Oct 8, 2019)

I've worked on this for the last two days, and I'm still not happy with it, but hey: you can't edit forever, right? Especially when there's a deadline. Here goes then:
LETTING GO

“Gemma? Is that you?”
“Yes, darling, it’s me. I’m sorry; I thought you were asleep. I just popped out to talk to the .. it doesn’t matter. How are you?”
“What did he say? The doctor?”
“Oh, nothing much. You know how doctors are, Thomas. Won’t tell you anything.”
“It’s all right, love. You don’t have to wrap me in cotton wool. I know there’s no hope. I may not be able to see, but I can hear, and the whispers... Are you crying? No, don’t cry, love.”
“Oh, Thomas!”
“You know, I was just thinking how ironic it is.”
“Ironic?”
“Yes. How you’re such a staunch Catholic, and I’m a damned heathen, and yet….”
“I don’t care that you don’t believe, Thomas, you knew that when I married you.”
“Yes of course. It’s not that. I was just thinking that I’m going to be the first of us to discover whether all those prayers you say are being heard or not.”
“Oh, they’re being heard.”
“But how can you be sure?”
“It’s called faith, darling. No, don’t snort. I don’t need proof. No Catholic does.”
“Yeah. Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m just so tired.”
“You should rest, love.”
“I’ll soon have all the rest I need. Hey, if you’re right, maybe I’ll get to see again. Wouldn’t that be something? Can you come closer? I need to tell you something, while there’s still time. I’ve been dreading telling you, and I hope you won’t hate me when you hear it.”
“Hate you? I could never hate you, darling. I love you. I always will.”
“Don’t be so sure, Gemma.”
“I _am_ sure. It’s like my faith, darling. I love you unconditionally, and there’s nothing you could do or say that would change that.”
“I don’t deserve you. I never did.”
“Don’t talk like that. Sorry. I don’t mean to get choked up. I want to be strong for you. But how could you even_ think_ such a thing? You may not believe in God, but can’t you believe in me? In our love? Thomas? THOMAS! Nurs-”
“Sorry to panic you, love. I just get so tired. I’m still here. Uh, what was I saying?”
“You wanted to tell me something, darling.”
“Yes. Give me your hand, love. Don’t let go, please. Whatever happen, don’t let go. Suppose I should take a deep breath, but I don’t have the energy, ha ha.”
“Just tell me, Thomas. I’ll understand.”
“All right. Oh god this is hard. Gemma, I killed Emily.”
“Emily? My best friend? Thomas, what are you saying?”
“It was an accident, I swear. She was going to tell you….”
“Tell me _what_, Thomas?”
“It – it was just one time, Gemma, I swear! Gemma? Gemma! Say something please. Anything. Curse me, shout at me. Anything but this silence. Gemma!”
“I.. I thought you loved me, Thomas.”
“I did. I do!”
“I gave up everything for you. And you betrayed me?”
“I was weak, Gemma. It was at a time when we.. were having difficulties, and, well, she was there...”
“And then you had to shut her up before she squealed, eh?”
“It wasn’t like that. She pushed me, I pushed her back. We were at the top of the stairs…. Oh, darling, I’m so sorry! Gemma? Speak to me!”
“I’ve held your hand all this time, Thomas; as you walked through the darkness I’ve walked right beside you. But I’ll need both of my hands now as I stumble alone through this new darkness you’ve given me, your parting gift.”
“I never meant to hurt you, Gemma. Please forgive me.”
“I can’t, Thomas. I’m sorry. I hope God can.”
“Gemma! Oh god! Please don’t hate me!”
“I don’t hate you, Thomas. I pity you. In a way, I envy you, too. Your journey will soon be over. Mine is just beginning.”


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## Deleted member 56686 (Oct 9, 2019)

*NOW ON LORENZO (A little off color)*

“ Good morning. I’m your host, Lorenzo- please, no applause. I know you love me. Our special guest today is conspiracy theorist Gertrude Strawberry, She has written- “

“Excuse me, but I am not a conspiracy theorist. I only speak the truth.”

“ Of course, you do. Like I was saying, she has written books on aliens  from Pluto controlling human minds- “

“They do!”

“And, of course, the bestseller that claims turkeys invented the wheel.”

“They did, and how dare you eat them for Thanksgiving!”

“Now, you have a new book out about music on a writing forum? Now turkeys inventing the wheel are one thing, but writers actually liking music? Well, you certainly have a right to your theories but… ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?”

“ Well, F Scott Fitzgerald couldn’t have written the Great Gatsby if he hadn’t listened to Scott Joplin first.”

“Really?”

“Well, no, I made that up… but think what a horrible place the world would be without the tender soft sounds of Guns n Roses or Black Sabbath.”

“What about Hank Williams?”

“He counts too. So does Stevie Wonder, Elvis Presley, Elvis Costello, heck, even the Elvis Brothers.”

“The Elvis Brothers?”

“Yes, there was a duo known as the Elvis brothers, no relation to Presley, Costello, or even McManus.”

“Um, yeah… okay.”

“ Anyway, they’re infiltrating a certain writing forum with something called music.  Now writers are being exposed to progressive rock journals, metal rock journals, some weird guy named Musty who keeps listing his favorite bands, country music reviews, arguments about whether the Eagles are pure country or not. Did Elvis Costello really eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”

“Elvis Presley, actually.”

“Presley, Costello, what’s the difference?”

“Well why don’t you click on ALL THINGS MUSIC at Writing Forums and find out for yourself?”

“ What? Wait a minute. That was just a shameless plug!”

“I do a lot of shameless things.”

“ You mean like the time you went streaking in front of the White House?”

“That wasn’t me. That was my sister, Banana Strawberry.”

“ You don’t have a sister named Banana.”

“ That’s true. But don’t you like Banana Strawberry, though? Yum.”

“ Okay, well that’s it for Lorenzo, tune in tomorrow when we ask if jugglers really have balls.”

“And don’t forget to click on ALL THINGS MUSIC.”

“KNOCK IT OFF, GERTIE!”


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## apple (Oct 9, 2019)

*Look Where Whining Gets You*


“ Dan.”

“ Hmmm.”

“ Come here. “

“ Umm.”

“Honey, please come here.”

“In a minute...wanna finish reading this.”

“Dan.”

“WHAT!”

“Well, don't get mad.  I just want to talk to you. I'm lonesome.”

“Wait a minute. Okay?”

“How much more before you're finished. Honey, aren't I more important? I mean you know if I feel so strongly about disturbing you that I'm feeling really awful. We never even cuddle anymore. Remember how every Sunday morning we'd sit together on the sofa and cuddle and talk? Those were some of my favorite times. Remember? Dan, how we... damn it. You don't even remember, do you?”

“Yeess, Annie, I remember.”

“Don't you speak to me in that condescending way!  I'm so sorry I bothered you!”

“Look, can't I just finish this frigging article? Then we'll reminiscence if that's what you want.”

“That's not what I want. I want you to want to be with me over that stupid magazine. I want to feel like you love me so much. Am I really so old and worn out to you?  I don't even turn you on anymore, do I?”

“Now you're being silly.”

“I don't know, it's like our love has grown gray hairs.”

“Oh my God! Gray hairs! So, what we need to do... give it a dye job?”

“You're funny! I'm aching inside and you're making jokes!”

“It follows. If our love has grown gray hairs then let's dye it. Yeah. What color are kisses and candlelight and three times a night between the sheets?”

You are making fun of me again, and being ridiculous.”

Are you crapping all over my revelation? This totally provokes my thoughts. Just like somebody else I know. Think about it...what color are cuddles? Hey, come here Annie.”

“What. What are you doing? Ouch!”

“I wanna wrestle. Come on, woman, don't be such a baby. Let's wrestle.  If I win you have to be Little, pink. Bo Peep tonight, and I'll be a big, handsome, hairy, red-eyed, Centaur.”

“You are so gross and on top of everything else you...."

“Wow. Well, well, sweetheart, I didn't know you resented me being on top. I'm willing to switch. Just give me a flip and... there you go.”

“Forget it! Just go on back and read your magazine, fool.”

“Nope, don't want to. I wanna wrestle.  Come here, I'll even let you tickle me. See, 
I'm all submissive...arms up and everything.”

“You're a moron. I rather kick you in the balls.”

“Atta boy girl!  Come get me,  Just one little flying R-Bar scissor hold.”

“Okay. You wanna wrestle? Let's wrestle, but if I win you ain't gonna have no Little pink
Bo Peep in bed with you. In fact, if I win, you better be Hercules Unchained.  You think you can handle that, big boy? Huh, huh?”

“God Almighty woman!  Show me that stuff.”

“Eee,ya!” 

“Oww. Foul! You fight dirty! You're really gonna get it now! When I pin you down on that floor, you're going to beg for mercy. Then, you wench, I'm gonna kiss you stupid.”

“Oh  sweetie, I know you'll be so happy we will finally achieve parity in the stupid department.”


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## bdcharles (Oct 10, 2019)

The Golden Ticket (anon, 476w)


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## epimetheus (Oct 12, 2019)

import personality: 147 words: epimetheus


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## bdcharles (Oct 15, 2019)

The Staithes Pike (650 w, anon)


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## seigfried007 (Oct 16, 2019)

Beauty and the Beast -or- Why I woke up with two black eyes and a swollen wallet, wearing someone else’s clothes in a grimy Las Vegas taxi bound for McCarran International at 3AM one chilly night in late November  (650 w, trigger warning: adult content, language)


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## bdcharles (Oct 17, 2019)

Valuable Words (587 words, anon)


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## Fatclub (Oct 17, 2019)

*ABC (650 words)*

“This is a typical man’s flat.”

“Thanks. What’s manly about it?”

“The mess. Don’t look at the worktops innocently like that, fellah. I’m talking dust. I’m talking food smears on the cooker, toast crumbs on the worktop. Is it safe to eat in this kitchen?”

“Oh, welcome to my home! I only tidied up this morning. Look there’s nothing lying around.”

“I’m talking grease and grime. Legionnaire's Disease, Salmonella and Grime-onella, fellah. I noticed a skidmark in your toilet –have you not heard of _blu-loo_ or bleach? You’ve bristle shavings in the bathroom sink, too. Oops, I _am_ sorry: first time in your pad and I’m criticising. My bad."

"Your bad what?"

"Hey, nice kitchen. Good size - big. How about that coffee, then?”

“Hang on a sec, babe. I’ll just fill the kettle.”

“It’s alright, I’ll make it. What cupboard’s the coffee?”

“On the left.”

“Sweetener?”

“That cupboard there – between the raisins and teabags.”

“Why’s your coffee and teabags in different cupboards? That's weird, fellah. And…why are your cupboards all so nice and tidy?”

“Nothing wrong with that. It’s logical. Why the frown?”

“The shelves look so clinical…Oh, _sweetener_! Between the raisins and teabags – _please_ don’t tell me everything’s in alphabetical order.”

“I’ll just switch the kettle on.”

“Are they? In alphabetical order.”

“No.”

“They are, aren’t they? That’s why the coffee’s in this first cupboard to the left of the cornflakes. Oh, look: Bovril, coffee, cornflakes, cornflour. They are, aren’t they? In order?”

“You said not to tell you. You said ‘please’.”

“Oh, for God’s sake! That’s just an expression.”

“Alright then, yes. My apologies for being sensible. I'm really sorry that I'm sensible and logical. I'm a man, get over it. But that’s how you find things like coffee quickly and easily. I suppose it sounds boring.”

“Boring? _No_. It sounds OCD-ish. Hey, just joking. I'm kidding, haha. Don't pull that expression. Hey, I’m a woman and _I’m_ sensible too – I just keep _my_ coffee stuff next to the kettle, on my clean worktop.”

“I tell you what, _I’ll_ make the coffees, _you_ put some music on. The CD player’s in the next room.”

“Okay. A CD rack next to it?”

“Er…actually, _you_ make the coffee. _I’ll_ put the music on.”

“No, no. I wanna see your CD rack."

"No, it's alright. I can work the player, you work the kettle."

"No, I insist. Stay here and make the coffees. I’ll talk to you through the hall. I'll have mine black with just one sweetener.”

“Hang on a sec. Do you want milk?”

“What was that? I can’t hear you through here, over that kettle.”

“_Do you want milk_?”

“I said ‘black’. Why don’t men ever listen? Hey, only joking, relax. Oh, God. I knew it: your CD’s are in alphabetical order. Do you have a bookcase? I bet it's covered in dust. Do you?”

“_What?_”

 “_Do you have a bookcase?”_

_“Hang on.”_

“Thanks, fellah."

"It's very hot. Like _you_…"

"Oh, puhleeze!" 

"Put it on the coaster or you'll burn the wood. Have you picked out a CD?"

"Yeah, here. 'can’t go wrong with a bit of _Eminem_. You look a bit like him, you know. That's why I let you chat me up."

"I don't _sound _like him. So, as long as you don't like Karaoke's, I'm doing fine." 

"So, come here, fellah. Oooh, you feel good. Smell good. It's a long time since I've smelled _Old Spice_ - is it to the left of the _Sauvage_ in your bathroom? What _other_ things 'you got in alphabetical order?"

"Well, you know; guess what comes after banana?"

"Apricot?"

"Funny! I'm thinking strawberry, ribbed? I've got some."

"That's a bit fast for me, fellah. Not to mention classless. Hang on - "

"Erm…who are you calling?"

"Hello? I need a taxi from 15 Acacia Avenue. You'll easily find me - it's between the number 14 and number 16."


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## BadHouses (Oct 17, 2019)

February Third (638w) [Language Warning]


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## Ibb (Oct 17, 2019)

*The Boys Are Dead But Also Back in Town (649 Words, ya Turds)*

Once a goddamned ’gain it was Walt Whitman, bellowing his heart out off the top of the roof. “Walt!” I screamed. “_Walt!_”

Of course he didn’t hear me. A fine craftsman, so-so poet, and all-around good Schmoe, my literary neighbor happened to be neurotic, prone to climbing outside his window at two in the morning in order to serenade the moon or to leap onto the balcony next door where he might try and fail a Young Werther in attempts to vaginally bamboozle his neighbor’s wife. His voice, finely lubricated, rose an unchallenged octave above my own.

By dint of tune and peculiarity of lyricism I suspected he was once again revisiting certain passages to Leaves of Grass that he might pick up and tinker with last-millennia touch-ups regarding his most popular verse. But tonight I was in no mood. I lobbed a shoe, striking him across the ear, precipitating a teeter which turned rapidly into a totter, turning thence into a loose-limbed freewheeling: out flailed a leg, there an arm, between both a bottle of rum, before down Walt Whitman went, babbling charitable gibberish whilst capitulating into the shrubs below.

“Fuck…” I said. “FUCK! _WALT_!”

Brief rustlings signaled he was okay. Then―voila!―out popped his noggin, no worse for wear, adorned in leaflets and jagged bristles plus plastered with a drunkard’s wide grin. “McGee?” he slurred; recognition slowly blinked within him. “McGee!”

“You’re okay!” I said. “I’m… I’m sorry, Walt, it’s just―Jesus, dude, it’s two in the fucking morning!”    

“McGee, McGee…. _Oooooooh_, _MUUUUUH-GEEEEE_―UHAH!” 

I lobbed my last shoe, striking the bridge of his nose, this time with enough force to propel him backwards into the shrubbery folds from whence he’d
came, the top of his head disappearing like a stone into the sea. “Walt...?” I inquired “_Walt?_”

An intruder: “He dead?” I screamed and spun around: Wolfgang Von Goethe, himself a playboy neurotic, had climbed onto my balcony. “Well?” he asked, and leaned over the railing to signify just how much this curiosity meant to him. 

“_What are you doing?_” I shouted. 

“Apparently witnessing a murder.”

“Get off my balcony!”

“I need a place to hide.”

“...Why?” 

Wolfgang looked over his shoulder, less for the view than because he seemed intent on pantomiming every display of emotion. “I banged my neighbor’s wife.”

“That was you?”

“Why yes.”

I pointed at the shrubs: “I thought that was him?”

“Why no.” He contemplated: “Do you have a couch?”

I was in no mood for this―Walt’s singing, Goethe’s debauchery. Still, much as I wanted, I couldn’t just leave him there. The night was wintry and, in the absence of shoes, I had already started to hop from foot to foot. Meanwhile, a litany of sliding balcony doors had sounded up and around me; unto their balconies ventured the Virginia Woolfs, Sylvia Plaths, Hunter S. Thompsons, and all other shapes and sizes of luminary neurotics. I looked up; down; everywhere. “Do any of you fucking sleep?”

“We’ll sleep when we’re dead,” said Wolfgang, a joke which everybody except me seemed to get and at which everybody immediately chortled.

“Oh, no!” said Sylvia Plath, pointing below. “Is he dead?”

“Indeed!” said Wolfgang, “―and McGee here killed him!”

I hurried down the steps. By the time I reached Walt he’d riled himself awake. “McGee!” he cried. “_Oooooooh, Muuuuh-Geeee_―UHAHPHEW!”  and sneezed, dispensing from his nostrils projectile clods of soil and a perturbed, fist-waggling snail. Walt blinked, stupified; then, gradually, he smiled and pointed; slurring: “I will sing that snail’s song…” 

“Later, bud.”

Of course I couldn’t stop him. He sang of stars, grass, people, insects; each with no less enthusiasm than the last. Sylvia met me on the first flight and grabbed his opposite arm; Hunter, flicking a cigarette aside, met us on the second. Even Wolfgang joined in; and by the time we reached Whitman’s door, I have to admit―

I was singing, too.


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