Bloody Sunday

Selma was 50 years ago today.

Longer than I've been alive. Longer than a lot of people here have been alive. This shit should be settled already. We shouldn't be having bullshit arguments with people who think that skin tones affect a person's inherent value.

Show the world what you do with your hands, not what color they are. That should be all that matters.

Two Brains, No Waiting

And I'm officially again working on two different books. Different genres, different time frames, vastly different voices... *head 'splodes a little bit*


book 1:

She could still feel the press of the [redacted], like a bruise on her skin. If she touched it, if she looked at it, it would overwhelm her. So she looked at anything but. She looked at the fire, crackling around the coalstone, eating the kindling and grasses she had gathered the night before. She listened to the horses, shuffling and breathing, the crunch of their teeth and the swish of their tails. She smelled the scent rising from the jacket draped over her lap for warmth, deep and smoky and sharp, with an unrecognizable flavor that she could only identify as being [redacted].

book 2:

“We need to let the client know it’s accomplished, and then send them an invoice for the remaining funds.”

“And by ‘invoice’ you mean discreetly remind them three times that they owe us for a successful solution to their problem, and on the fourth try suggest that perhaps written documentation might jog their memory, and see how fast the money appears?”

“It’s almost like you know rich people,” I said, turning around. “Now get outta my chair.”