When the light came on overhead, Andrew tightened every muscle in his body, making sure not to stop breathing entirely in case he couldn’t hold it. This had been a problem in the past. “Andrew!” his mother screamed. She didn’t know he was hiding in this particular closet, and had been yelling after him all around the house for the last twenty minutes. ...READ MORE
Shariing is neither male nor female nor do those words exist. Shariing moves slowly out to the porch and down the steps to the garden. The garden exists even though the word does not. Shariing carries a mantle of electric current draped down the back and worn like a long cloak. The garden shimmers and flowers electric fire-works as Shariing passes down the lane. The garden is an endless aurora of color, which mixes flowers and trees with an electric background.
Plangent whirled the organ, like it drifted aloft the cathedral, a red velvet air, as Erika ran her fingers along the sounds and the airs and focused on the little surprised child's mouths of pipes working, sputtering dust and dead flies, redistributing them to the talcy hot dampness aloft; whirled, prestidigitatorily, the long, long fingers, from key to key, with the pedals coming in from time to time, but all without order—and without order even in the sense of controlled disorder, as of free jazz, aleatory music, what ha[d] you—with the little “failures,” as she thought of them, and what they sounded like, were they sour notes, dissonances, extemporized but then employed to some purpose, or conceived preemptively to application.