Urban legend

I. Patrick Stanley, amidst the noise and vibration of the work site, barely heard the shouts of his foreman but, looking up, he saw the stocky, heavily muscled, veteran of road construction pointing at his watch and then drawing a line across his neck: lunch time. Pat nodded and waved, acknowledging and, then, keeping his eyes open for the


“I need to stop letting myself be screwed-up by you. I need to stop ...” The words exited his mouth, vehemently articulated, causing the surrounding silence within the spacious apartment to draw away shyly for only a moment. This was, he knew, stirring impatiently from the couch and entering the kitchen for a cigarette, not new


“It is either the lack of originality or the lack of will – conviction – that leaves you like this,” he wordlessly reprimanded himself while, before him, the virtual page on the computer appeared as unmarred by words as sheets, fresh washed and bleached of love's stains, hung to dry in the late spring breeze. “Or


The letter, which had come across his desk on the previous day, left him aghast, shaking his head in some emotion similar to disgust but also tinged with disbelief and anger. He attempted, with dubious success, to reign in his own reaction and paused, taking a deep breath. His eyes moved, again, slowly to the head of the letter and he began to

Dead and living it

“I'm not dead,” he observed, accurately, “but I should be.” Dazed, he crawled several feet from the wreckage where, still unsure of the state of his own body, he collapsed onto the hot sand and blinked upward, astonished, into the blue-white brilliance of the sky. In the moment before the impact, while the earth did a


When I see her walking toward me, my heart first flutters anxiously and then beats with the force of a mallet against my ribs. That is, quite simply, the effect that she has on me. When she drapes her arms lightly over my shoulders, drawing me, bent slightly, toward her, my heart is beating so loudly in my ears that I expect the passers-by in


“Fillet mignon, medium rare, up on 23 – it's yours, Jamie,” said the chef, sliding the china plate under the warming light and glancing briefly in his direction before turning quickly back to the kitchen. “Thank you, François,” responded Jamie, straightening his black vest and tie but, the chef's attention