So NaNoWriMo is over, and I have another 50,000 words down on my future military / psychic reconnaissance novel. A few middle and ending scenes need to be filled in, and it’s all a disordered jumble in one document at the moment. But I’m happy to have completed my 2nd NaNoWriMo event.
I learned (or re-learned) a few things along the way, which I’ll post over the next month.
But more importantly (to me), this frees me up to focus on revising and publishing my fantasy novel that I finished in late Spring. Thanks to several very helpful and thoughtful first readers, I have some solid suggestions on fixes and changes.
I’m going to start posting the first few chapters as a lead-up to the book being publically available online–which should happen by Christmas. It’s my present to me… and maybe to some of my friends who are already after me to work on book 2.
If all goes well, this year’s group of Okinawa NaNo participants will also form a monthly writers’ group–something we wanted to do last year but couldn’t due to various military commitments and obligations. I’m ecstatic, since I maintain that’s the absolute best way to grow as a writer. I enjoy it so much I wrote a book about it, called Elements of Critique.
And sadly, when I look at the news out of my hometown Chicago and other places around the States, I see very little has changed from the stories dominating the headlines last year. When I completed my first NaNoWriMo, racial tensions and community relations occupied my mind. More importantly, I could not ignore the wide gulf of animosity I saw on social media between people holding opposing viewpoints. And I wondered if anyone really considered the hurting families and broken lives in the aftermath of Ferguson and other flare-ups of racial tension. My book, Not to the Swift, is my effort to understand and empathize as a fellow father, husband, human. Seeing or considering what others go through reminded me how much I have to be thankful for.
I hope Thanksgiving and the oncoming holiday season find you well and give you the chance to count your blessings. Maybe that can be another Christmas present we give ourselves. Gratitude and contentment seem truly counter-cultural in the West, so this is our chance to be ironic hipsters and go against the flow.
This is my last Blog Battle entry (probably) until December, since NaNoWriMo beckons and will demand my attention. The genre is sci-fi.
—
Clouds blanketed the sky, but the third moon’s violet glow pierced the veil with dim but unwavering light.
Dressed in clothing like dingy, tattered rags, a mother and her son huddled in the shadow of volcanic stone jutting from a nearby vent. Thick ash fluttered through air corrupted by sulfur’s stench.
“I may not always be here to guide you to a new refuge.” She choked on the words, and not from the fumes. No one traveled at night, when the creatures swarmed across the barren landscape. But her last refuge lay in ruins. Her love most likely lay among the slain. Scattered and pursued, the survivors fled in every direction.
The sense of loss hounded her, hammered at her wavering strength, screamed in her ears to give up and die. Her son’s wide, innocent eyes kept her anchored, kept her from wailing and running into the night toward certain death.
Squatting in the darkness, she looked her son in the eye. “You must be most cautious at night,” she said in a terse whisper.
“Because Stoneskins hide in the shadows?” he asked, barely audible. He’d learned well.
“No, because they’re nocturnal. Do you know what that word means?”
The boy looked around, struggling for an answer. His eyes lit up with insight. “The knocking noise they make when they talk to each other?”
She chuckled and kissed his soot-stained head. “No, sweetie. It means they only move around after sunset. But the good news is they stay out of the shadows. I don’t think they like the darkness either.”
A gout of steam released from the vent behind them, and the ground shook.
The boy clapped his hand over his nose. “Ew,” he said with a giggle. “It stinks like Dad after dinner.”
His mother shushed him and tried to keep composure, but the boy’s infectious delight could not be stopped.
Laughter felt foreign, alien, after so many years on the run since the colony ship landed on Beta Kaali Two. Sensors set for organic life offered no warning that the very stones of the planet might be alive.
A thought struck home and swept her joy away. “We might not see Dad again.” She patted the youngster, and put a finger to her lips.
But the crack-crack of stones slamming together on the other side of the vent silenced them both at once. A Stoneskin drew near.
She charged her nano-pistol and checked its settings. The gun’s nanites could disassemble the creatures on a molecular level. The devices proved the colonists’ only defense against the aliens. But supplies had long since dwindled.
If any of the Stoneskins attacked, she’d have three shots–maybe four.
With one arm, she clutched her son to her chest and they became still as the rocky ground. No matter what, she thought, I will protect you. With my life, if I must.
She closed her eyes and focused on the only sound that brought her peace, the too-fast beating of his heart.
—
The rhythmic knocking of his brood mother soothed Ko-Kakrik and he clawed across the ground eager to follow her voice.
“Do not wander into the shadows, little gravel-shell,” she said with fondness.
Ko-Kakrik sensed the vibrations around him and felt nothing apart from his mother’s movements and voice. He clacked his mandible stones together and asked, “Does the darkness deafen us to the sounds of the earth?”
“No, my spawnling,” she replied, with a stuttering clack that indicated amusement.
The mirth vanished and she cracked out a warning. “That is where the humans often hide. If they see you, they will spit venom from their claws to eat you alive.”
Ko-Kakrik paused and listened again. For a moment he thought he felt another sound, a pair of thumping drumbeats nearby.
His stones beat together in a panic. “Mother?”
His mother’s claw rested upon his back and she guided him away. “Come along, and fear not. I will protect you. Even with my life, if I must.”
i’ve been crushed with “real life” to the point that the best I can do sometimes is stare at the screen during my set-aside time for writing.
NaNo is coming up, and I have a sort-of outline.
That Chicken Soup entry won’t edit and submit itself.
My WattPad book experiment is languishing even though I enjoy it when I get to it.
Revising a 130K fantasy epic takes so much time and effort! (Protip for you, Dave: maybe write better the first time.)
A Blog Battle participant frequently posts humorous and painfully accurate lists about writing and life. She posted 10 emotional hurdles for the newbie writer and I could so relate.
It helps to know this is common and others deal with the same struggles. Maybe it will help you if you’re in the same boat.
At the very least, it captures a glimpse of what’s going on in my life right now.
Supplies are limited!
An exciting batch of “swag” arrived from the organizers of National Novel Writing Month, a.k.a. NaNoWriMo… a stack of postcard-sized explanations of the event, and a small batch of stickers to give to participants.
This year’s T-shirt design.
If you didn’t know, NaNoWriMo is an annual writing challenge where participants attempt to write a novel of at least 50,000 words between November 1st and November 30th.
It was the driving force behind me finishing my first book, Not to the Swift.
I’m a Municipal Liaison this year, which means I get to help organize events and tell people what’s going on so that interested writers can get together to share in the joy and misery.
Also I got a sweet T-shirt.
I always thought NaNoWriMo sounded like the old Batman theme…
It’s one month away, and it costs nothing but effort and commitment. Whether you outline and plan every detail in a story, or loose wild characters into a fun setting to see what happens, it’s an exciting time to hone your craft.
And especially if you think, “Well, I can’t do that,” know that plenty of us said the same thing for years. Then we sat down and did it. So you can too, and we’d love to cheer you on along the way.
Here’s a Blog Battle entry for the word, “Train.” I want to call the genre Western, but supernatural is probably a good fit.
Heh, so… This week’s word is actually “Ride.” Well, this is pretty clearly a story of a ride on a train, so maybe it’s not too much of a stretch?
We all love creative writing… Maybe I was practicing my creative reading skills this week.
Hope you enjoy the ride…
UPDATE: And apparently enough people did that this scored a win for this week’s challenge. Thanks to all who voted for my Old West ghost watchers, Tommy and Jake!
Thanks, Rachael!
—
Heavy silence hung over everything like a church sanctuary at midnight. Darkness stretched forever like a moonless sky.
Thomas had only been to one funeral in his eight years, when a cholera outbreak on the frontier took his little cousin Annabelle. The whole McMillan clan gathered in one place for the first time in years, but no one had the heart to say a word.
The dream always felt like that.
“Tommy, wake up.” Eagerness gave his brother’s deep voice an edge. “We’re almost there.”
Thomas blinked a few times and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. The gentle swaying of the southbound Union Pacific train and the clacka-clack of the tracks below threatened to lull Thomas to sleep.
Jake poked Thomas several times. “You’re gonna miss the ghosts.”
“I don’t believe in no ghosts, Jake. That’s little kid stuff.”
Jake laughed and tousled his brother’s hair. “You’re still young yet.” He turned to the window and gazed into the night. “Folk say they always appear on the hillside before we cross Clark Canyon.”
Thomas yawned and stretched. “Think we’ll spot some Injuns? I hear the Shoshoni attacked some wagons an’ such.” His eyes lit with glee, even if a few drowsy passengers shot him a stern glare. “Maybe train robbers! I hear Jesse James been spotted in these parts.”
“You never know,” Jake said, then grinned. “You’ll have to help me watch. We passed through Dillon a bit ago. Should be comin’ up on the river soon. We’re that much closer to home.”
Thomas squinted at the roiling clouds of mist curling across the flat landscape. “Too foggy out. Can’t see much of anything.” The sight brought a strange familiarity, though they’d never ridden this train before.
Jake nodded. “Rolled in a few minutes ago. That’s why I woke you. I really could use an extra pair of eyes, ghosts or no.”
A soft glow appeared in the mists ahead, and Thomas leaned toward the glass. The fog parted and revealed a brightly painted metal sign with a golden arrow pointing west, lit by the shiniest electric lamps Thomas had ever seen.
Except… he’d seen them before, hadn’t he? Those same bright lamps, that very sign?
Better with his letters than Thomas, Jake read aloud as the train lumbered past. “The historic ghost town of Bannack, Montana?”
He looked at Thomas with a furrowed brow. “Bannack’s just down the Montana trail from Dillon.”
“I knew that,” Thomas muttered, unsure why or how it was the case.
Jake ignored the comment. “They got a gold rush goin’ on, so the conductor claimed. You’re not gonna believe it, but people say a man can pull up a sagebrush–”
“–And shake out a pan full of gold,” both said in unison.
They stared at each other in wonder for a moment then settled back in the padded seats. A few minutes later the low, mournful wail of the train’s whistle broke the silent spell.
Jake turned toward his little brother. “How did you–”
“Look!” Thomas pressed his face against the window.
A cluster of bizzare carriages in a variety of odd shapes sat at the base of a small hill. Soft electric lanterns of some sort fastened to the carriages gleamed in the swirling mist, their beams pointed toward the tracks.
“No horses in sight,” Jake mumbled.
“The ghosts,” Thomas whispered.
Wispy figures gathered on the hilltop under the moonlight, watching the train. Someone had a looking device mounted on a tripod that made Thomas think of photographers back in town. But a camera needed daylight, and surely couldn’t be so small.
Jake squinted at the distant crowd. “What sort of attire is that? Not even tribeswomen are that immodest.”
Nearby passengers stirred at the commotion, and conversation about the spectacle swept through the railcar. A trick of the fog, some reasoned. Spirits from beyond, perhaps the victims of Shoshoni attacks, others said. A messenger of Satan meant to deceive, a preacher declared, then proclaimed everyone in imminent danger of hellfire.
“We’ve been here before,” Jake said. “More than once. Every word they’ve been saying, I knew it before they finished talking.” He glanced about the car and noticed similar reactions among the travelers.
“There’s another sign comin’ up, Jake.”
Jake shook off distraction and peered into the fog. “Clark Canyon Bridge,” he read, then gasped. “A. K. A. Ghost Bridge, site of the 1884 Union Pacific disaster–”
Screams resounded from the forward railcars. The passenger car angled straight down and plummeted toward the ground, passing through the metal structure and railroad ties. The rock wall of the canyon raced past the window with increasing speed.
Jake and Thomas lurched forward, smacking the seats in front of them. Thomas reached for his brother and clasped his hand, then squeezed his eyes shut.
Heavy silence hung over everything like a church sanctuary at midnight. Darkness stretched forever like a moonless sky.
Blog battle – Pages tells me it’s exactly 1000 words.
Genre: Action? Near-future sci-fi?
—-
by Mick Fournier, found on Wikipedia, licensed for Creative Commons usage
Rough hands shoved Abby Spangler from behind, and she tumbled into the dark cell. Her shoulder smashed into the cement floor and she grunted.
“Don’t bruise her,” a man’s voice commanded in Vietnamese–they hadn’t discerned her understanding of their language yet.
The door slammed shut. Muffled voices withdrew.
The dank air reeked of mildew. Flies buzzed around the single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. Abby rolled onto her back and sat up with effort. She blew long blonde bangs out of her eyes and shook her head in a futile effort to manage her unruly mane.
Her cellmate watched, head bowed. “You okay?” The voice came out as a sheepish whisper, its quivering pitch indicating recent tears.
Tara hadn’t succumbed to the hopelessness of the other slaves Abby had seen. But she was on the verge.
“Not too bad,” Abby answered with a forced smile. “Everybody needs some electro-shock now and then. Quiets the voices in my head.” She chuckled, hoping to lift Tara’s spirits.
But the teenager sniffed and kept her eyes on the floor.
Abby groaned and slid into her corner. As planned, she whispered her callsign, briefed two months earlier before she let herself be abducted. “Ghost Orchid.” An image filled her mind–a white flower with long tendrils like frog legs hanging beneath a tree branch. Its roots blended so well into the tree that it seemed to float in mid-air, alone and unsupported.
Like me.
Soft cries echoed through the thin walls of the holding cells–a former hostel near Cam Ranh Bay, judging by snippets of conversation in central Viet dialect and the few glimpses outside Abby managed thus far.
Traffickers brought kidnapped girls from the airport, where they arrived on flights with handlers arranging passage and bribing security. The port city served the syndicate well, with vessels bound to all parts of the world.
Here, at least, it would end today.
“Why don’t you just shut up so they’ll leave you alone, Abby? When you mouth off, you’re just asking for it.”
Maybe Tara’s not doing as well as I thought.
“No,” Abby said. “Nobody ‘asks for it.’ These are wicked men doing evil, preying on innocent victims. I don’t buy any logic that says it’s our fault we ended up here, no matter what led to this.”
She softened her tone. “Besides, they can’t afford to hurt us too much. They need pretty American girls–no bruises, no scars.”
Tara sighed. “You sound so chipper. You realize you’re going to be sold as a sex slave to some dirty bastard in a third world country?”
“Not today.”
“Oh, yeah, take it one day at a time, right?” Tara rolled her eyes. “That’s not going to change how the story ends.”
Abby felt a vibration in the wood at her back and looked at the ceiling. The lightbulb swayed. A distant rumble built into thunder, then dissipated in a loud rush of air.
Tara glanced around the room in panic. “What’s happening?”
Abby grinned. “‘Not today’ meant we’re not getting sold off. Not ever. None of these girls are. Relax, this will be over in about two minutes.”
Or so the Colonel said.
She fought sudden fear at the realization she had no idea what to expect.
Screams resounded throughout the building–shrill cries of terrified men instead of the young girls Abby had heard for the last week.
Then the walls melted in slow motion, leaving soupy puddles covered in gray dust. Sunlight burst into the room, and both women blinked watery eyes to adjust.
Abby stood and counted survivors. Within a minute of the initial impact, seventeen girls huddled together in the goopy remnants of the slave traders’ holding facility. No collateral damage, no civilian casualties…
Tara asked, “Where did the slavers go?”
Abby studied the wet mess and grimaced. “I think we’re standing in them. This looks like the results of weaponized nanotechnology. Uncle Sam has some new toys.”
The chop-chop of approaching helicopters caught Abby’s attention and quickly drowned out the sound of Tara retching behind her.
Abby shouted against the sound. “There’s our ride, girls! Gather up. We’re going home.”
She helped the young ladies into open hatches where soldiers in active camoflauge scanned biometrics and guided them to seats. Finally, Abby took another look at the destruction and hopped aboard.
Colonel Hunter Stephens shook her hand. “Got your signal, Agent. Great work.”
Abby nodded and took her seat in a daze, struggling with confusing thoughts.
Stephens sat beside her and loosed a contented sigh. “Nice to do some good for a change.”
“Colonel,” she said, “the Agency had no idea where we’d get dropped off. That’s why I got taken–finding where they operated.”
“That’s right, Agent.”
“So how could you plant listening devices advanced enough to pick up a whispered callsign?”
Stephens said nothing, but his smile vanished.
Abby reviewed the preparation for her mission months earlier. Combat training, resistance techniques, a full medical check-up and thorough brainwave scan to set a baseline in case of traumatic brain injury…
“Oh my God,” she whispered. “The picture of the orchid. You saw that somehow, picked up my thoughts, triangulated our position by tracking my brainwaves.” She glared at Hunter, who sat silent as a statue. “What the hell kind of system does the government have?”
The picture of the orchid returned–a lone flower out in the open, seemingly unsupported yet held aloft and nourished by invisible roots, sustained by resources unseen at first glance.
“Agent, Ghost Orchid was never your callsign,” Stephens said. “It’s the coverterm for a special access program you’re not cleared for. You’d do best to forget this and take comfort that we rescued these girls.”
He flashed her a smile that any other day would seem charming. “Trust us, we’re the good guys.”
She turned to stare out the chopper’s window, unsure what to think, but absolutely certain she didn’t want to think at all just then.
There’s a response by Senator Elizabeth Warren to all the graphic Planned Parenthood videos going around–or rather, it’s a response to those who condemn PP and the abortion industry for contributing to a devaluing of human life in our culture. It basically boils down to, “You all are pretty bad about valuing life too, so there.”
It’s the standard trope that goes like this:
“Well, if the GOP and these so-called ‘pro-life’ people are so concerned about life, then they’d be more motivated to help people in need, like immigrants and refugees, instead of trying to kick them out and build a wall. They’d be more supportive of funding those living in poverty, providing for basic care, helping that new mother out after she gives birth to the baby they’re all worried about. They’d care about the children who are the same lump of cells and tissue after birth that they were so defensive about when that was a fetus in some mother’s womb.
“This is how you know they’re not really pro-life, they’re just anti-abortion, anti-women, anti-freedom to choose. And so, just disregard all this evidence and all these allegations, because who wants to listen to those anti-abortion types anyway?”
That’s not an exact quote. That’s just the gist of the argument, as summarized by someone else. It’s also the same stuff I’ve heard over and over from abortion defenders.
“You’re better off not thinking about what they say. Trust us. Everything’s fine.”
Some good Left-leaning friends taught me long ago (by pointing out when the GOP did it) that “when people don’t have any defense for their position and ideas, they attack the opposition and ignore the facts.”
That’s what you see here: Distraction and misdirection.
I think Warren and others make great and valid criticisms about the GOP, or the pro-life movement, or the Religious Right, or whatever group we want to call out. We’ll talk a lot of Jesus, go after what we claim are moral and societal ills, and sing the praises of personal charity. But when it’s obvious that personal charity isn’t on the scale required to address the overwhelming need, we’re still quick to condemn government intervention and support to the poor.
Yes, those critiques are valid, deserving of not just discussion but also action. We have to practice what we preach. We haven’t always fully lived up to the moniker “pro-life.”
That doesn’t sweep arguably immoral and allegedly criminal actions under the rug.
If fetuses are being accidentally born too quickly then they’re not fetuses, they’re infants. If they’re being harvested for parts after that point, then tissue isn’t being collected for medical research, human beings are being murdered. If everything is so kosher, then explain the myriad attempts by PP officials to distance themselves in the unedited videos from public backlash or government scrutiny. All of that still matters, even if you’re right and I’m wrong about some other political issue like welfare or immigration.
My ignorant position on that subject doesn’t cancel out your intentional ignorance of allegations of murder.
If you get pulled over for drunk driving, you can’t point at a bunch of speeding cars and say, “What about them?” expecting to avoid the consequences of your actions.
But it’s okay. “Everyone knows pro-lifers are hypocrites… so just trust us, there’s nothing to see here.”
Except there is.
I guess maybe the eleventh video might finally drive the point home.
Dear Right Wing: You do yourselves no favors by freaking out at the mention of the word “gay.”
“OMG President Obama nominated an openly gay man to become Secretary of the Army!”
“It’s obvious pandering to the homosexual agenda!”
“God help us!”
“Why not someone qualified? Because he doesn’t care about the troops!”
If you’re going to complain about them, at least look at his qualifications. Look at his past positions and how his performance measured up in his job, not in his orientation. There’s a world of information available at our fingertips; there’s no reason to miss these facts.
But facts don’t stir up the emotions and get the voters scared about where this country is headed, so I guess we’ll keep going with ignorance and blinded, slavish emphasis on one or two cultural issues.
Fanning previously served as Chief of Staff of the Department of Defense. He helped manage Secretary of Defense Ashton Carter’s transition, built his leadership team, and oversaw the day-to-day staff activities of the Office of the Secretary of Defense. He was the Under Secretary of the Air Force from 2013 to 2015 and also served as Acting Secretary of the Air Force from June 21 to December 20, 2013, making him the second longest-tenured Acting Secretary.
– from Wikipedia.
Obviously the guy is only there because of his orientation. And obviously this is one of those hills the GOP is happy to die on. Between Huckabee and Trump, we’re getting such enlightening and presidential points of view.
So it seems pretty obvious to me that, if this is what constitutes for rational political discourse, the Left can start celebrating their 2016 victory early.
I got an email from social writing platform WattPad celebrating my accomplishment in their recent 1-month writing challenge. “Congratulations! You wrote it!”
They ran an event for the month of August for their 2015 Wattys (their internal awards), using the slogan and hashtag #JustWriteIt. The goal? Write a story within a 30 day period, with at least 10,000 words.
“Just ten thousand,” I thought, “that’s it? NaNoWriMo was fifty thousand words, and I completed that. So ten thousand is nothing. Easy-peasy.”
A little further inspection of the email made it clear no one had actually checked whether I really did write that much.
Which is good…
…because I didn’t.
It was classic “the tortoise and the hare” stuff that brought me down. “So few words! I have all kinds of time. I can take a little break over here… the tortoise will never reach the finish line.” Days pass, then weeks. Then I see my word count isn’t where it needs to be, but busy schedules and competing priorities get in the way.
“I have maybe one day left… if I sit down tomorrow and pound out the last 3,000 words, I could finish the 10K.”
But it’s a 30 day challenge, not a one month challenge… so what started on August 15th ended September 13th, not the 15th.
The email arrived at 11:55 PM. The celebratory tone poured a little salt in the wound on my pride, and reminded me of the simple truth about writing or any other hobby we claim to take seriously.
Writers write.
They don’t just talk about writing, or talk about what they wrote in the past. They don’t just read about how to write better, or collect supplies and gimmicks and tips on cool, inspirational writing locations.
Being a writer involves intentional effort, effort that I failed to make.
So, what now?
Well, I’m enjoying the Echoes story I started, and plan to continue it. It’s a nice side project if I want something I can break into smaller chunks (compared to working on a novel).
And NaNoWriMo prep is in full-swing, with a little over a month before the kick-off. I’m going to be a Municipal Liaison this year, so I’m going to be encouraging others to accomplish the challenge while trying to complete my own.
I managed to finish last time, and sure enough, it was all because of disciplined effort instead of any supposed skill.
It took writing during almost every free moment. Beating a 1666 word goal each day before letting my hobbies distract me. Putting aside things I really enjoyed to focus on what I said I wanted. Avoiding the inclination to take a breather if some hard work over the weekend got me a bit ahead of the daily goal.
For example, my wife started playing the new expansion to World of Warcraft when it came out in the middle of the month. I listened with eagerness to her descriptions of all the added features… then I kept typing the next scene in my book.
I finished the 50K a couple days early and finished the first draft of the book just before the end of the month.
People balk at the idea of writing a book in a month. They hear the number of words and wonder if it’s possible. It’s both challenging and easy, in a way. You just sit down and write. Then keep writing. Then write some more. Then do it again the next day.
We make time for what’s truly important to us. We make excuses when it doesn’t matter enough. And when we know something is easy, we may fail to put in the effort.
It’s harsh, but it’s more true than the email celebrating my success.
After writing about hopes and dreams and possibilities, it strikes me that I don’t want a lingering memory of “what if I had?”
I want to look back with pride and joy, saying, “That’s what I did.”
i skipped Rachael Ritchey’s Blog Battle challenge this week. I had a couple ideas but nothing really came together in my mind.
Then my captain reminded our office that today is our base’s 24 hour POW/MIA Remembrance Run to honor America’s prisoners of war and those missing in action.
I wrote down some thoughts this morning, and showed up to walk laps on lunch. While people run with a POW/MIA flag, servicemembers read a list of the missing. Pure serendipity, I was walking past as they read several “Williamson” entries from World War II.
This week’s word took on a different meaning.
—
DISTANCE
Though we’re separated by
Both time and distance
Anyone can hear my cry
If they but pause to listen
A foray in a foreign land
That didn’t go the way we planned
Becomes a test of strength and honor
Which I must withstand
So little left to hope in
My resolve threatens to crack
My body may be broken
But my spirit is intact
Memory my only token
Of all that I now lack
The oaths that I have spoken
I will keep ’til I get back
All the tears you cry in silence
All the nights you felt my absence
All the times we would have kissed
All the moments that I’ve missed
And the pictures that I’m not in
While I’m gone but not forgotten
The home of David M. Williamson, writer of fantasy, sci-fi, short stories, and cultural rants.
