Municipal officials argued the city needs a symbol, a monument. So they commissioned artists for ideas. The winning entry was a 120 meter tall, stainless steel, pin-like structure. Oblivious to the irony of a city devastated by a heroin epidemic, they called it The Spire. Dublin people call it The Spike.
The jewelry warehouse is surrounded. Apart from the SWAT team and the K-9 unit, there's an entire squad of uniformed personnel whose sole task appears to be crowd control and the deployment of barriers. 'We have him,' the lieutenant says, gleefully. Standing beside him, pockets bulging, Mary can only chuckle.
His words resounded with sincerity, they rang with meaning and truth but she knew, from bitter experience, how action's note carries a clearer sound where light resides in transparency and lies, however attractively adorned to soothe, assuage or persuade but can never prevail and will always be revealed as opaque.
Every day he sits down and like the Haiku poetry bloggers, tries to create a story in a confined format. He uses 50 words to tell a story with meaning, infusing the readers' minds with hints to fuel, even ignite, their imaginations. No prizes sought or expected, he is no champion.
Bad hearing was not an asset in his line of business and most of the time he got away with visual interpretation and lip reading. But when he hesitated before making a decision, a goon giggled, mumbling. He shot him, asking what? He said you were on the cusp. Oh.