Seattle.
It is late October, early November, when Dawn puts on her grey scarf and each day arrives in soft focus, born in muffled softness.
The edge of the world is only a stone’s throw away. Green needles and rusted leaves alike gleam in the moisture-laden air.
Above, southbound geese call with muted trumpets, navigating the blanketed skies, seeking grey waters beneath grey fogbanks.
All is cotton and wool, steely but soft, quiet and chilled, both bright and dim.
I walk dew-slick streets, and feel that here, surrounded by these layers of mist, magic is possible.
k
Last Thursday, around midnight, my wife was hauled down a long, lonely corridor, knocked unconscious, and stabbed five times.
Autumn arrived in Seattle a few days ahead of schedule. This weekend, a low-pressure system cruised in with gusts that rattled the windows and whistled through the trees. Standing at the window, watching the maples dance, I thought to myself, “It’s a blustery day.”
As a writer, I’ve always been fascinated by so-called “famous last words,” but not the pronouncements made heading into battle or climbing the gallows steps. In those situations the speaker has prepared, is aware of what is likely to come, and has given their words some forethought as “famous last words.” Lines spoken at times like these are spoken for posterity, and are likely to contain not a small amount of “spin” for the history books.
Kurt R.A. Giambastiani 