“In Eyre Square the boy Victor waited, watching the front entrance of the Great Southern Hotel. The bells of the Abbey church struck 2:00 am in the rain-solaced silence.”
The sparrow literally dropped through the flue into Helen’s cold fire place at just barely daylight. At first, she thought she imagined it.
Blades reached her just as the light at State and Washington turned green . . .
“Keep Portland Weird.” I see it on signs all over town, but what does it even mean?
Ah, those eyes. You look into them, and you still see the fire, at least for a little while . . .
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Flood Street. I wound up there after a long period of debauchery, or so I’m told . . .
Bashir had witnessed his share of riddled bodies since the Americans had invaded, but this was the first from his own hand . . .