On writing

He stood on the deck of his dirigible, long coat tossed by the storm, and calmly flicked a sliver from his leathery palm with a Bowie knife while fires raged on the ground far below.

“Stories are like killer robots,” he said. “Never really finished, but at some point you just have to unleash them on the world.”

He walked towards the captain’s lounge. The rhythm of his peg leg on the deck sounded like a heart in love.