❝In which a celebrity dials a random number in hope of finding one last thing to make him smile before he commits suicide at the end of the month.❞
"I'm going to commit suicide in one months time."
"I think you have the wrong number."
"It can't be t...
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Bursts of color blinded her eyes as she was suddenly bombarded with the rugged beauty of the backstreets of London. Everywhere she turned all she could seem to see was an eternity of color and bright smiles as craftsman's hands traded their intricate fabrics with passers-by.
Cleo found herself engulfed in the exotic atmosphere, running her hands over smooth fabrics and gaping in pure astonishment at rough gemstones. She did not fail to notice that the true treasures were not the sale pieces themselves, although they were beautiful, but the people selling them.
She was so caught up in the sudden spiral of activity that she did not take note of her Lost Boy. Her Lost Boy who's hand shook as he repeatedly clicked the pen that he held in his hands. The sound, of course, faded into the buzz of the market. No one could hear it. Not even himself but if anyone had it would have reassembled the sound that a train would make as it pushed itself over a rung of train track.
Muscles contracting and relaxing, straining themselves to cause one single movement. A click of a pen. Repeatedly. Over and over.
