It had taken Trumbull until near dawn before he really fell asleep, and then he slept so deeply that it was almost sundown when he awoke. Continue reading “Naked, Alone, and Human (2.7)”
Ron Trumbull spent an uneasy night in the cabin. The door, which no longer latched, kept banging open in the wind until he moved an end table in front of it to hold it shut. His subtly enlarged body was just too long for the bed, the mattress of which was too thin to shield his bulk from the metal frame. Continue reading “A Goddamn Animal (2.4)”
He did not remember how he had left the museum. It had been a blind panic… no, not panic. Instinct. Savage instinct. He had desired to leave, and he had. That was the essence of power: you want something, and it happens.
The main floor of the east wing of the museum was permanently devoted to temporary exhibits. It had two large galleries that ran side by side from east to west, and a smaller gallery at the end that joined them into a U-shaped path. Continue reading “Share Time For Manifestos (1.4)”
Picture a man. Continue reading “Picture A Man (1.3)”