what constitutes the end?

this is the question. one we ask ourselves over and over throughout our lives. always seems to come up no matter the circumstance. in this case, i'm thinking about the end of my novel which just doesn't seem to want to end, as if it has a life of its own and i have nothing to do with it. and then there's the issue of the end, what it means, death. so much death all around me. always the prospect. so i have come to adopt it as something i encounter in my every day life, part of what to expect and in the case of my novel SEPTEMBER 10TH, death keeps knocking on the door. it's where it started and it's where it all ends (eventually) but that's past the place i intended.

unable to resist

"Instincts don’t fail you, honey." His mother’s refrain, as if she’d observed what transpired and is once again offering too much advice. These instincts spell trouble, what kind of trouble he isn’t sure but all the same he knows if he doesn’t protect himself no telling what will happen. A cackling seagull distracts him, circling the rooftops, dipping and diving as if silvery fish flicker in and out of the surf. As he reaches the next intersection he sees a heaping pile of paper, plastic and spilled Chinese takeout where more gulls have gathered to pick through the refuse. Prix fixe. Unable to resist, he approaches the next bin like a hungry account executive on his way to a power lunch. Nothing like a half eaten perfectly encased sandwich of mozzarella, arugula and sun dried tomatoes. He can’t help noticing the contenders, meals barely touched, the ones he would rescue from the garbage before they’re shipped off to the landfill, ones which rejuvenated his undernourished body when he has nothing but a cardboard box, holey tennis shoes and too much time on his hands. He has to stop looking through the trash.