eblo

The chaff burns, a smoky cloak of ash billowing to the east as the wind picks up. The prairies are still as night falls, waiting for the rain. Bison paw at the cooled soil, waiting for buds to push through. Nature has tilled and fertilized without breaking ground. Turning a

Artificial Intelligence (AI) is a term that gets half of the words right. The richest one percent, the techbros, spend more money than you or I will ever have convincing the rest of us the term means exactly what it implies.

Welcome to longhand digital fiction - my aim is to write blogs, stories, and novels by hand, and then type them up verbatim to accompany the cursive--after a chapter, or short story, I will post the edits to the original writing - repeat ad infinitum and suddenly there is a

Afternoon. The trough. Restlessness slithers into my veins, the serpent of endless possibility. It circulates, scraping my insides, leaking its venom but sinking its fangs into nothing. An ache in my teeth that cannot be gnashed away. The broken-glass toxins refract harsh light, immobilizing photographers in a shimmering haze that