Thomas McCorkle
The Incapable Charles S. Sycamore Charles S. Sycamore had certainly seen a lot of things this morning. When he woke up at six A.M. to prepare for his half-hour long drive to South Charles University, he observed the tidy fashion of his one-bedroom apartment located on the outskirts of London. His eyes moved in a sweeping manner across the span of his bedroom, passing over a large wooden two-door wardrobe, which held his vast array of consistently pressed suits, ties, pants, and undergarments; a foot locker sporting the insignia of South Charles from his own time at the university; and a small standing desk showcasing the divorce papers from his uncontrollable wife as well as a picture of his lovely daughter Emelia. A plain room to be sure. However, plain and simple is much easier to manage than complex or abstract. Charles saw his reflection in the downstairs mirror after neatly combing his taper-cut brown hair, getting dressed in a dark gray suit, and putting on a black bowler hat sporting an ideal leather trim. What looked back at him through the mirror was a well-groomed, fifty-six year old, five foot six inch tall British professor but whose slight writer’s hump
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