It's been a week since Halloween, a week since the end of October, a week since the culmination of Short As Fictober, my self-imposed, month-long writing journey. I haven't written much of anything since then, but I have had a moment to reflect on the experience and make a plan of sorts.
Edith wore an old brown barn coat, the same one worn by her mother and her mother before her. Two lifetimes plus one in the making ran throughout the fabric, the buttons, the zipper. Inside, the coat had four pockets, each with the potential to contain entire worlds. This particular attribute made the girl's task at hand--delivering The Basement Tapes to the next faction over--significantly easier.
At dawn I pull the last batch of donuts from their bath in the deep fryer, and rack them to cool. My shop, Tasty Donut, opens its doors in thirty minutes and I'm lagging behind. Three straight days running on no sleep will have that effect. Surprised I've been full steam ahead as long as I have.
The angel startles awake and rolls over in his hammock, squints against the glare of sunlight shoving its way through the screen of sycamore leaves.
Berta Saunders banks her plane hard to the left, swerving around a flock of juvenile dragons who squawk and screech and spit middle finger equivalents of flame in her direction. She checks the mirrors she installed on her craft just in case one of the little bastards decides it wants to show off and give chase.