Didn't even stop to look the dude in the eyes before shoving him off the bridge. The coat was fancy, that's all that mattered. Resale, maybe two hundred. But I saw it happen, and I followed this scumbag as he walked three miles to a Brooklyn pawn shop. He walks in, and four minutes later he walks out looking happy. Calls someone on his mobile. I follow. The guy he meets in a subway terminal gives him pills in exchange for the coat money. I follow him home. Get in the same elevator. Follow him down the hall. Before he...

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"Should I do it?"
"What if I am found out?"

The struggle raged on in Wendy's head. It had all been too much for her. She had lost her job just the month before. Now she was struggling to keep the strands of life together. There was no food in the refrigerator, bills were piling up, there were too many empty wine bottles and worst of all, her friends no longer called her.

"What can I do," she asked herself. "There's just no other way than this."

Sitting on the kitchen floor in front of the oven, she struggled with...

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The pidgeon man rolled off the sky-scraper. Thousands of birds flew with the updraft, gaining momentum as they hurled their bodies into his back. The crawling taxis below wailed insistently. Pedestrians opened their umbrellas, one by one. Sunset embalmed the towers in reflective flame.

The pidgeon man did not see what was beneath him. He only and always looked up.

His shadow grew on the pavement. He was seconds away from landing, yet the birds continued their sacrifice.

I don't like this piece at all. It is a depressing photo. :(

Read something else.

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A small office, four storeys up a marble staircase with an flowery ironwork bannister. Dark. Quiet. A light passes the window, shifting the shadows. There, in the darkness behind the desk, a face. An open mouth. Staring eyes. John's heart hammers in his chest so loudly. Can he here it? Can Adam see him? And the girl. The poor girl. Blood pools beneath the desk. And for what? A painting? Art from an artist centuries past. A dead work for dead people. His hand tightens on the suitcashandle. The Pelican. Is it worth this?

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She began a cigarette.

She thought about the beginning, when both of them wrestled with being simultaneously addicted to and afraid of each other. The fear was its own pleasure: they both noticed that the adrenaline of their hours apart was worth infinite foreplay.

She watched the first part of the logo turn orange and then grey. The image lasted in the ash for a second before mixing in with the image of the paper.

Later, she began to notice a strange emotional trajectory in their evenings together: the impulse, the sex, and then sadness, or disappointment. The sweat turned...

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