A Game of Chicken

Okay, let's see how many times I can start a project and publicly bail on it. The new August Avenue story starts: (At least it does tonight.)

 I lifted my summer weight felt hat off the rack by the door and looked about my hot, twilit flat, just to make sure everything was in order should I die before I returned. Not that I was planning on dying. I was merely going home on my annual summer holiday. And though I rather dreaded going home each summer – I had been far too eager to leave the farm behind to attend university for my father to ever forget or completely forgive, making my annual visits a bit tense at times – I had no reason to fear death. This time, however, I had, on several occasions, found a fleeting moment of peace having taken that precaution. But then I couldn’t have known that when I settled my hat on my head, closed the door behind me – checking to be certain that it was locked – and started down the stairs. Had I, I would’ve stayed in bed with the covers over my head. And never opened the wire-note from my chief at the Bureau of Innovation.  
I spent a month or so this summer daydreaming this version of August Avenue before abandoning it, quietly. But I have to write something, and I think I might be able to make it work. But then, I thought that the last time as well... We'll all see how far I get.