eblo by LindsayBison

stories | novel | @

I moved over a few old posts from the last year. Things are set up and settled for a few years at least, which is a long time, considering the speed at which words move. There is enough dry paper that things should engulf in the next little bit, and I'm looking forward to seeing the blaze.

It’s a new season. Time to harvest some stories. They’ve been well tended by idle thoughts and ruminations, but the required typing weather was unusually short this year. Keyboards sat idle while fingers flicked phones. While screens glared.

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My trowel is ready. November is in two days. There will be enough residual Halloween candy to pump my fingers through 50,000 words.

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If the wood slides together in the right way, the shadows on the lawn look like a face. And if I hold my head at the correct angle, the path towards a half-hundred-k words is barely visible through the thicket of thoughts.

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Afternoon. The trough. Restless snakes seeking shelter in veins.

Parched and peeling, a reticulated brain.

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Originally posted in January, 2022

It’s the end of a century, and I can’t think of anything, except … the end of a decade. It’s hard to get out of the way of a decade when it keeps swinging around for you on a virus tether.

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