June 28, 2012
Sigh – I should have been looking where I was going more closely as I rushed to cross Mass street at the corner of Eleventh today. Went splat on the pavement, skinned both knees, my chin, my upper lip, somehow the back of me left shoulder…
And there’s a big chip out of one of my top middle teeth. It doesn’t hurt much, but it’s a weird sensation, and I feel a need to be careful about eating anything not very soft.
Luckily, the travel insurance that I got with my round-trip flight has very good coverage for impact dental. I’m hoping to get an emergency dentist appointment sometime tomorrow before workshop session.
January 14, 2011
Okay, as I said I might, I’m posting the full text of ‘Devin Versus the Distinctive Sweater,’ which provided the ending sentence that I shared in the New Creations Blogfest. This is a bit longer than my usual posts, but I’ve decided against breaking it up for dramatic impact reasons. I hope that you enjoy it.
Devin Versus the Distinctive Sweater, by Chris Kelworth
The only thing that Devin Partlan understood was that he had to keep pedaling.
He didn’t know how he kept getting mixed up into this kind of thing. Just because his brother-in-law was some kind of spy, and Devin had accidentally found out the truth behind the ‘cover’, which suggested that Charlie wasn’t really that good at spy stuff, but so what? Devin suspected that there were other CIA agents whose family members knew some details about their jobs, and those family members weren’t constantly getting drafted and inveigled into missions. It just wasn’t at all professional.
On the other hand, after this kind of thing had already come up three times, possibly Devin should have thought better of planning a trip to Paris on the second anniversary of his and Kelly’s wedding. He’d thought twice about it, more about the money than the possibilities of French counterspies putting his life in danger, but – well, his dear Kelly had wanted Paris so badly.
And that was why Devin was cycling desperately away from the bad guys, trying to remember how to get to the one CIA Sanctuary that Charlie had ever told him about south of the Pont D’lena.
At least he’d kept on biking ten miles a day, six days a week, since marrying Kelly.
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