He was glad to be in the light, but the light was dim. Looking back toward the darkness, he realized he couldn’t see if anyone was coming toward him.
“Already?” he said with a quick glance at the clock. “Where did the time go?”
“You were ruminating. Shall I let them in?”
So enraptured by this work of art, the man closed his eyes so he could etch the image into his memory.
“Your world is about to change in ways you can’t imagine. This ain’t the 90s anymore.”
The girl with curly hair stared out the classroom window. A breeze shook the trees’ red leaves.
My name is Steele. Sam Steele. “Now, if I can only remember to say that when I flip on the mic!”
Editor’s Note: The post is an excerpt from a journal of Colin Brock.
Mistleton is not a small town, but it’s no metropolis either. It’s somewhere in between. It’s a blend of urban and rural, ancient and cutting edge, wealthy and poor, belief and unbelief.