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Conductor The blonde haired boy with the pool stick to push back the approaching armada swung out wildly, and sadly not at the sea, nor even at the winter fountain, but rather at the aged conductor, smashing him in the face and drawing blood. Being that the boy was only a boy, too young to be a dauphin, let alone a king, the man with crumbling scores under his arm could not hold his not so highness in contempt. He wished that he had brought his own swinging stick, but sadly he had forgotten it at the symphony hall. If he had remembered it then he could have raised up an orchestra in revolution with heavy Wagnerian brass and delicate Saint-Saens strings, but today would not be the day for such an uprising against the boy who would be whatever he could be, given time. The conductor tasted the blood that flowed over his lips. The blow would provide him with a blackened bruise and a not too short scar. He would have something to talk about between movements tomorrow at rehearsal. Chatter on such a brutal mishap would provide him with a few moments of respite from swinging his arms about and rousing up the fallen notes of heaven.

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BWOWP_WHITE01  

Black Words On White Paper is a unique literary journal, publishing poems and flash fiction that fit onto a single page. This is the premier...

BWOWP_WHITE01  

Black Words On White Paper is a unique literary journal, publishing poems and flash fiction that fit onto a single page. This is the premier...

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