* worth reading?
1 fantasy romance about a government worker sent into a mysteriously empty NYC completely run by the military, to find a rogue filmmaker.
2 Kill your darlings remix. Cutting the words by 33%, then lovingly laundering the rest into something new.
3 A micro 500 at a time to read like the stanzas of an epic poem.
*I'M NOT IN MEXICO. *him.
The ceiling and four AM. Her candy bar phone.
*Green boxer shorts she's wearing. *his.
1 HE SAYS, WE RODE UP THIS OLD HIGHWAY -- NOT A REAL ROAD ANYMORE -
Window black.
-- Down along this, Tucky's sayin with his hands -- we're on the bikes, all I'm seeing in the dark is his right hand -- This is it, I know this place. Guess what?
What?
Wrong way.
Window blue.
He says, Wish you had come. But no beach. We found a motel.
Seven motorbikes, a dirt lot. She thinks of this Roger Kent, his face like an eagle. A dirt lot and a motel she saw in a movie. A Santa Fe desert inn, pink, with blue swallows painted all along the U-shaped perimeter. In the shadow of a mountain.
He says something.
In the yard, in her mind, she's cut and pasted Tucky, the boys, the bikes. And Tucky's hands guide her to Roger Kent. To his room.
Golden edible dust a force-field as she walks along the yard of the motel to the room.
Something her father had said once to her, a blue barrette clipped over the flaxen of a Saxon, that's this motel and desert, to God.
I'm imagining your room. He says.
She opens her eyes.
Blue window.
Maintain. The motel room, the desert.
Don't go yet.
Back to work tomorrow?
Today, she says.
Be careful, he says.
Beep, the phone says.
Hello?, She says.
Yellow Window.
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