I'm not sure it's possible to have a favorite story of one's own, but yesterday I pulled a piece out of temporary mothballs, reread it and sent it out again. On rereading it, I thought, damn, that's a nice story. Here's hoping "Achilles, Sulking in His Buick" can do well in the world.
(It was in mothballs for a while once the movie Troy came out, because I figured any editor who saw it might either themselves be influenced by the movie or assume I was.)
I had a dream last night, only fragments of which stick in my head. But I know that in real life Alan M. Clark doesn't live in a three story brownstone, have half a dozen borzois, nor is his place filled with dozens of half-eaten birthday cakes.
Redemption rises from Ocean like some great, marble-clawed monster seeking solace within the open sky. The city shines in the setting sun, spires and gilded domes and slate rooftops reflecting the salmon glower of day's end back across the waters toward the infinite, dark horizon. The sea birds wheel lazy over the quays and docks at Cityfoot, where the great rock of Heaven's Knee plunges into the violet waters. Higher up in the factory district, pigeons whirr and cluck, settling into eaves and belfries and abandoned shot towers. Among the upper-level temples and towers and crenellated mansions of the rich, falcons roost, calling their hymns to the approach night. Above and around it all the great ropes and cables that bind the life of the city rattle and hum in the evening breeze. From water's edge to the highest platforms of Breath's End four miles up, the lines speak a secret language of braided hemp and drawn wire and the hissing memory of linemen's gloves.