a few lines from the Florence novel, for Ilie Ruby

Several days ago, my extremely talented friend Ilie Ruby invited me (along with others) to share a few lines from a work in progress. I hadn't written for many weeks. There wasn't much progress to report.

But yesterday, as I noted here, I did at last return to the Florence novel. I'm sure I'm breaking all the rules of Ilie's prompt, but here, Ilie, are some words for you:

He has risen like a ghost from the crypt, red flowers in his arms, and he runs like he’s been running for a long time now, like no one will ever catch him.  Beneath the green arches and the false rectangles, toward the patch of sun near the open door, through the cage of nervous birds, the boy runs—his loose laces slapping the marble tiles and the flowers banging around in his clutch.  If he sees me, he doesn’t care.  If he thinks he’s free, he’s not, because now the monk appears from up above, bald and thin, his robe the color of San Lorenzo brick and his belt rope swinging in anger.

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