She leaves my side and heads deeper into
the apartment singing, “—if the spirit tries to hide, its temple far away… a
copper for those they ask, a diamond for those who stay.

All is as if the world did cease to exist. The city's monuments go unseen, its past unheard, and its culture slowly fading in the dismal sea.

That’s a stupid name! Whirly-gig is much better, I think. Who in their right
mind would point at this thing and say, ‘I’m going to fly in my Model-A1’.
People would much rather say, ‘Get in my whirly-gig’. And that’s what you
should name it.

I rouse Emily to our guests, as she finishes off our fifteenth snowman by setting the head atop its torso. She stands limp at my direction, pointing out the coming shadows and I cannot help but hear a muffled sigh as she decapitates her latest creation with a single push of her hand.

I steal one glance over my shoulder as soon as we are far from the foreboding luminance of the neon glow, and it is there that my stomach leaps into my throat. Squatting just shy of the light and partially concealed by the shade of an alley is a sinister silhouette beneath a crimson cowl, beaming a demonic smile which spans from cheek to swollen cheek.

History doesn’t start with a tall building
and a card with your name written on it, but jokes do. I think someone is taking
us for suckers and is playing a mean game.