Legend of Tory Adore 2: "Futile Attraction"

slapdashmonuments

Inspiration hits with a flash, stories written on the go. A rumble of laughter and the tale is heard only in echoes. The wind blows me in a new direction. Whom shall I visit next?


Tory was staring up at the slanted mirror hooked to the ceiling; Pips's gaze was fixed on the shattered remains of his mocha flagon, in twenty-three pieces on the floor. As the CD unit restarted with "You're my Everything," their eyes started in towards each other like the backing of a magnetic ear-ring and its front, attracted by an unseen force. Tory was the sparkling front; Pips, the heart-shaped magnet. Soon their eyes met and shook hands. Pips didn't smile, but there was mirth in it. They strode toward each other, little heeding the ornamental stools and shards of crockery as they forged their way to the center of the room, right under the ceiling fan. He was raving again about the fantastic manacled ceiling again, as he did every morning. They paid him no more heed than Beethoven would give to an Appalachian yodeler.

Gathering the folds of her dress daintily, Con helped Tory into a sedan chair before seating himself. He did not want to ask why a sedan was parked in the dining room. He tipped his hat.


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