"You're stealing my style."

"You're not introducing the characters. You never do. Your stories don't follow literary rules. It's unruly the way you write." His words were thrown carelessly at me, like a mad dog throws froth at dead air where the scent of long-gone prey settles. There was poignant truth to his words that I acknowledged and he noted with triumph.

"We're all justified in our choices," a passerby told her accompanier as they floated past with carefree debonair. I flipped a dime and the Bluenose glinted in leaf-fractured light. What was tails supposed to represent, again?