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The Favor Chpt. 8
He had figured last night that since his meeting with Phoenix wasn't until two, he might as well allow himself to sleep in. Sleeping in for him meant about nine o'clock, no matter what time he had gone to sleep.
Miles rubbed his eyes, sitting up in bed. The morning sunlight leaked through the bedroom curtains, warming the bed sheets. On the nightstand beside the bed, the alarm clock blinked 9:07. Slipping out of the sheets, Miles quickly made his bed and went into the kitchen, turning on the stove for morning tea.
Guess what today is, Miles, he thought darkly, pouring water into a kettle. Today is the day you have to walk into the pathetically named coffee shop to see the pathetic Phoenix Wright. Miles paused, then admitted moodily. Not pathetic. Perhaps... Shaking his head, he opened the cabinet above the stove and picked out a package of tea. He took out a cup, slick and white, and set it to the right of the stove. Miles left the kettle, coming to sit on the love seat. He sat there f
You Can Help Me Just Once"Miles!"
"Help me." Franziska ordered, pushing a piece of paper towards him as he stepped into the kitchen doorway.
"Franziska, I'm busy." He puffed, turning around to head back to the von Karma study down the hall.
"Miles get back over here!" She snapped, knocking a fist against the dining table.
"What?" Miles snapped back, arms folded across his chest. He hung lightly on the door frame, his forehead crinkled in annoyance.
"I," she proclaimed cooly, "would like some help." Franziska held up a finger, her elbow resting on the wooden table. She wagged it at Miles as he came over to her.
"I thought you didn't need help from anyone." He retaliated, standing beside her and leaning on a pushed in chair. Looking up at him, she bit her lip in displeasure.
"Is it possible you could explain this to me?" She muttered darkly, holding the piece of paper up to him.
It was a thick cut paper, not bending under his grip. A paragraph, the third on the sheet, had brackets on either sid
The Favor Chpt. 7
He had sat there, unmoving, for at least three hours. The only sound in the house for those three or more hours was the low hum of the television and Miles's slow, gentle breathing. When he finally sat up, he was through about half of the book and had read the Care section.
Late afternoon sun shone through the living room window, the thick curtains drawn back with a rope. The soft, white carpet in front of it glowed a bright yellow. Now, Miles sat at the small table beside the window, tea cup in hand. The Labrador book was on the table top, closed. He quietly looked over at the clock on the wall, listening to its hollow ticking. It read five o'clock. Standing up, he pushed in his chair and walked down the short hall to the kitchen. It was about time to make dinner. He decided upon a quick meal, wanting to continue reading, and opened his pantry doors to grab a small container of instant noodles. As he rattled around in a cabinet, he heard the buzz of his phone. He stood up, setting his
The Favor Chpt. 6
The sidewalk traffic had practically doubled. It was lunch time in Los Angeles and everyone was either taking a lunch break at one of the many restaurants or just returning to one. People stepped in and out of the store doors to his left and the traffic on the street to his right was packed with cars, virtually blocking his view of the store windows across the street.
Why did the questions Ms. Audum ask annoy him so? But then again, he thought, why shouldn't they? He thought about this as he walked back to his condo, book in hand. It was, he concluded halfheartedly, because of the favor being owed to Phoenix. Yes, that was it. Phoenix, the rookie lawyer that has always won his trials against him... Miles clamped his jaw shut, clenching and unclenching his free hand. Well, that was the reason that he wasn't enjoying this favor.
He was still thinking about this when the higher floors of the condominium came into view. Darkly pushing the thought to the back of his mind, he widened his str
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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