Conor Newton
Stories (2)
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Lucky Day
Murphy adored the lamplights on the West Side. More than anything, he loved that moment of ignition. Every eve, at five o’clock, those gothic bulbs sprung to life, cool and hazy in the dimming vespers. That negative interference of tungsten and twilight always betrayed his familiarity. For a brief little wondrous moment each night on his stroll home from the studio, he felt as if lost in a foreign city amidst a romance of cigarette smoke and neon. The East Side where he worked wasn’t half as enchanting—those modern LED’s and industrial street lights were suffocating, really. No, that colonnade of glittering jewels in the West Side, hanging up in the misty evening air—it made each day worthwhile. That was home.
By Conor Newton5 years ago in Criminal
Lucky Day
Murphy adored the lamplights on the West Side. More than anything, he loved that moment of ignition. Every eve, at five o’clock, those gothic bulbs sprung to life, cool and hazy in the dimming vespers. That negative interference of tungsten and twilight always betrayed his familiarity. For a brief little wondrous moment each night on his stroll home from the studio, he felt as if lost in a foreign city amidst a romance of cigarette smoke and neon. The East Side where he worked wasn’t half as enchanting—those modern LED’s and industrial street lights were suffocating, really. No, that colonnade of glittering jewels in the West Side, hanging up in the misty evening air—it made each day worthwhile. That was home.
By Conor Newton5 years ago in Criminal
