My Small Story
On the street, we walk, the survivors. Along side us are the workers of the fish market, in boots, jeans, t-shirts, aprons. I ask where the ferry is.
“Back in hell. Just turn around, and hang a left in the middle of hell.”
When that Feeling Something’s Wrong Keeps Growing
I had a breakthrough. But not until suffering through the terror I might have wasted the past two-plus years.
808,483, but Who’s Counting?
So, I stopped the blind stabs of opening files and hopeful keyword searches and used Scrivener to build an Index
Busy with Fun and Not Fun Stuff
Lots of potential here: the parallels between narcotic use and necromancy are interesting, the language is often Chandler-esque in a good way, and it delves into some interesting psychological territory.
“However….”
My Small Story
On the street, we walk, the survivors. Along side us are the workers of the fish market, in boots, jeans, t-shirts, aprons. I ask where the ferry is.
“Back in hell. Just turn around, and hang a left in the middle of hell.”
Too Early in the Morning for an Epiphany
Since that spill, I’ve borne a grudge against the sinister presence that created “right” ways. That enforced its rules whimsically, letting me do it my way much of the time. Tricking me other times. Sometimes even punishing me with a broken glass or painful scrape.
Smoke on a Subway Platform
“There’s been an attack at the 36th street stop.”
“Where Max waits for Andoni.”
Only the Dead Have Nothing Left to Learn
That stuff, well, once you stop learning about those things, you’re dead—even if your body is still walking about, going through the motions of life. That’s existing, simply not being buried yet.
20 Years On
Scars makes sense for the body—stop bleeding, prevent an infection, protect the break—quickly—to keep us alive and then repair the harm as fast as possible. Gotta keep going after all. But, some scars heal up better than others.