{Note to the reader: This is the second installment of a short story I’ve been working on over the past few months. I have been publishing subsequent sections to this blog as I feel comfortable with them. Enjoy!}
Seattle, thought Isaiah, is a city who’s essence seems to linger in the consciousness of her visitors long after they leave her. Images of her sweeping cityscapes, the artful blends of sleek contemporariness and vintage charm. Her wilderness of towering skyscrapers and brick buildings. She was a city of allurement for all sorts of reasons. And now, glimpsing out at her puzzle of streets and alleyways from inside the taxi, he was relieved once again to be back in her arms.
“Right here,” he told the driver as the cab approached a classic brick building several stories high. The sign above the main entrance read in shining silver letters: THE CHANDLER BUILDING. Isaiah paid the taxi driver the fare, plus a modest tip, and then pulled his arsenal of luggage out of the trunk and headed for what would very shortly constitute home-sweet-home.
Isaiah’s loft apartment—condominium, rather—was more than just “a pad.” It was a carefully constructed ecosystem, shaped according to his exact needs and specifications. It was like a bionetwork of all things Isaiah, from one wall, to another, to another.
By now, dear reader, it should be painfully easy for you to discern who Isaiah Bradley really is: A pretentious, reclusive bastard. And if that weren’t enough, what do you get when you throw a pretentious, reclusive bastard into a scenario such as his? An archangel of disparagement roaming the streets; a seraph of cynicism contemptuously awaiting the next bitter moment of bad news and the next victim on which to blame it.
That was Isaiah Bradley.
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