Blizzard. (18.8.17)

Summer heat trapped in a stuffy room bakes the dust and breadcrumbs into the desk. Sticky forehead, forearm, rest.

A long day’s work has brought her here, tired and damp, thoughts gone soft. Work is scattered around her, in bits and pieces. Notes on scraps of paper, post its, napkins, and open books. Little piles of journals punctuating the chaos.

Chronicling her travels, experiences, collaborations and ideas of so many strangers who were in those moments, perfect. Her research that didn’t quite make sense, that she didn’t quite understand or have an aim for. Some of the pieces didn’t fit anywhere, not research or story, not facts or fancies. Scribbles and simple existing jots.

It was months of memories and more. It had taken three days already, just to look over all the thoughts and directions.

And all this day had been spent solving the puzzle. It was firm in her dreams now, how everything would go.

Her office door opens with the crack of tensioned wood, half sticky with sweaty, pealing paint. She starts, groggy, sees Aynn come through and wince.

“Jesus, Jaz, this is a goddamn oven. Here,” he reaches for the nearest rickety, vintage, wire fan.

“No!” She leaps up, waving, her dreams wiped away, but it’s too late.

The clattering fan’s weirdly powerful stream of air hits her desk and the sweltering mid summer room, with its dust and sun streaks, is witness to a freak blizzard.

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