Summer is dwindling, the sun mocks me, I’m getting my warm jacket out. I have stories to keep me warm, too.
Six stories.
Tall ones, mainly.
But also small ones.
Lots of different sizes, really.
Fishow, for one thing, surprises. Ipseity? I’ll have to look that one up. But I love letters, and these letters are caught in a loop.
Then I’m in Bangkok. Bang. Another Fish—Fishbane this time—but this is a whole new kettle of aquatic life. Something pulls me into this piece—the need for words, for stories, for the rest of the night.
Guyton makes me laugh. A fear of clowns? Yes, please! A fear of mimes? I’m front and center! And let’s fistfight some mountains, with their constant looooooooming. Please.
Fluffe. Bling. Snyde. Sindell brings the syndication and all sorts of oration, but I’m definitely backing Winston.
I want to live in a Scotellaro story. I want to. Just for a minute. Just so I can smoke “the stub of a smelly Italian cigar” and “paint my knuckles” and “watch for them potholes too.”
I want to.