Okay, let's see how many times I can start a project and publicly bail on it. The new August Avenue story starts: (At least it does tonight.)
I lifted my summer weight felt hat off the rack and looked about my
hot, twilit flat, just to make sure everything was in order, should I
die before I returned. Not that I was planning on dying. I was merely
going home for my annual summer holiday. And though I rather dreaded it – I’d been far too eager to put the farm
behind me to attend university for my father to ever forget or
completely forgive, which made my annual visits a bit tense at times
– I had no reason to fear death. This time, however, I had, on
several occasions, found a fleeting moment of peace in having taken
that precaution. But then, I couldn’t have known that when I
settled my hat on my head, slung my kitbag over my shoulder and
closed the door behind me – checking to be certain that it was
locked – before starting down the stairs. Had I, I would’ve
stayed in bed with the covers over my head. And never opened that
wire-note from my chief at the Bureau of Innovation.
I spent a month or so this summer daydreaming this version of August Avenue before abandoning it, quietly. But I have to write something, and I think I might be able to make it work. But then, I thought that the last time as well... We'll all see how far I get.
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