(Or was it a cupola?)
Jean Rhys considered a minaret. Chiefly, she considered whether to rappel down it or not. Perhaps a gliding option would be more successful in this case.
Jean Rhys, international super spy, fashionista, and mildly successful novelist, considered her next moves. There were many options to choose from, but only one, presumably, that would leave her body free of the wrack and ruin that would certainly follow were she to choose incorrectly.
The wind picked up. She stowed her grappling hook gun/zip line and pulled two cords on either side. Wings snapped outward, and she leapt out into air.
Moments later, Jean Rhys stood in the uppermost floor of the sinisterly modern Geatzenvluegh Towers.
Some documents labeled ‘Antelope’ later, she shoved her gear into a furnace, and found her meandering way out of the building with the nighttime cleaning crew.
Makin’ it look easy, Rhys. Makin’ it look easy.
(And also the glories of war?)
“Et tu, Miranda?” Julius Caesar bellowed, as she handed him toast that was firmly in the well-done spectrum of toastiness and bordering on burnt. Everyone knew (or should!) that Julius Caesar liked to have his toast only slightly toasted, the barest hint of warmth and crispiness and browning. Julius Caesar sighed and reflected on the difficulty of hiring reliable toasters. His eyes glazed over and he reflected on some far off future time when a device or contraption might be used to toast a piece of bread identically every time. Perhaps it would involve springs, timers, and highly contained fire. Also, this piece of toast was ever so much thicker than the last!
And then, to top it all off, some purple jam oozed off his terrible toast and slipped onto his second best toga. I mean, it was purple too, obvs, but it was the principle of thing! He would have to settle for his third best toga (he only wore his best during official state events). Julius Caesar roared in fury. Calpurnia Pisonis said, “Oh, I’m sure it will wash out dear.”
Julius Caesar pouted. “I’ll look like such a slob!” He stomped off in a huff. Calpurnia Pisonis rolled her eyes. As he stomped out of the room, Julius Caesar turned back to say, “You were right about the Ides–” and then promptly stumbled into some kind of urn thing.
I mean, could the Ides of March get any more terrible?