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Sol Claire

July 2014



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Jul. 8th, 2014

Sol Claire

An Alphabet of Embers Day 1, now with letters

Originally posted by rose_lemberg at An Alphabet of Embers Day 1, now with letters

In case you missed it, the Kickstarter for An Alphabet of Embers has launched last night.  We are kickstarting for an anthology of unclassifiables – lyrical, surreal, magical, experimental pieces that straddle the border between poetry and prose.

The book will have beautiful cover art by Galen Dara, and there are so many wonderful rewards – a song by Emily Jiang, a bonus chapbook of science poetry (I will post more on that separately), additional books, posters, boxes of treasure, and even an epic performance of an Eddic poem Atlakviða in the original Old Norse.

And here’s a first of our surprises: the letter you see below is an A of Embers, from an Alphabet of Embers graciously drawn and donated to the project by Bogi Takács. The alphabet includes many other letters, which will appear in our Kickstarter updates! Some of these letters look more like Latin characters, while others are unique to the alphabet, like the letter A below.

A of Embers, by Bogi Takács

A of Embers, by Bogi Takács

Thanks to our wonderful first-day donors, we are 18% to goal. Thank you so much to all who donated and signal boosted! Can we make it to 20% today?

ETA: Hurray, 20% reached! Can we reach 25% on Day 1?

ETA2: HURRAY, and enormous thanks to our wonderful backers, we’ve reached 25%! Can we reach 30%, or $1800, today?

Signal boosting is very much appreciated!

Originally published at You can comment here or there.

Sol Claire

There Is No Lovely End, by Patty Templeton


Patty Templeton's

There Is No Lovely End
is a New World populated with a new kind of ghost.

Templeton's language is lavish and diabolical,
as if Charles Dickens strolled into the Cabinet of Dr. Caligari
and came out the other end wearing ruby slippers.

Throughout the novel abounds a love of books and the bizarre,
of specters and the spectacularly macabre.
Here you will find mediums, outlaws, murderers, medicine shows,
and Sarah Winchester as she never was --
but should have been.

- C.S.E. Cooney

Book Trailer:

Author's Superpower on Skiffy and Fanty.


Jul. 1st, 2014

Sol Claire



I am seeking representation for my darkly comic fantasy novel, Miscellaneous Stones: Assassin. It is what you get when you cross the Addams Family with Terry Pratchett, and comes complete at 100,800 words.

Miscellaneous Stones is born into a family of assassins. From her glamorous father who comes home at night smelling of butchery, to her mother whose cold glance can stop a man’s heart at forty paces, Miscellaneous’s impeccable ancestry requires her to grow up ruthless, efficient, and implacable.

The problem with Miscellaneous Stones is… She’s allergic. To violence.

At first her reactions to the death surrounding her are minor: sneezing, swelling, hiccups, nosebleeds. But her symptoms grow as she does, and Miscellaneous knows she cannot follow in her family’s footsteps without destroying herself.

“Stoneses Die Young.” It’s practically a motto. By the time Miscellaneous is twenty years old, most of the Stoneses are dead. Someone is out to end her line, and take down the Realm of Liriat with it.

Now the runt of the family must tap the power sleeping inside her. She must change her name, protect her young niece, make amends to the shapeshifter her family has wronged, pay the rent, get drunk with her new friends, and flirt with pretty-eyed priests who are most definitely not what they seem. Ultimately, she must also face her so far faceless foe, the Blackbird Bride whose shadow threatens to darken the red lamps of Liriat.

If Miscellaneous Stones has to resurrect an undead army to save her country, well…

The catacombs beneath the city were getting a bit full anyway.

I write under the name C.S.E. Cooney. My novella "Martyr’s Gem" appears in Rich Horton's The Year's Best Science Fiction and Fantasy, 2014 Edition. I have sold novellas, short fiction, and poetry to the following small presses, anthologies and magazines: Drollerie, Papaveria, Black Gate Magazine, GigaNotoSaurus, SteamPowered II, Clockwork Phoenix 3, Apex, Subterranean, Strange Horizons, Podcastle, Pseudopod, Ideomancer, Cabinet des Fées, Goblin Fruit, and Mythic Delirium. From 2010-2011, I was web editor for Black Gate Magazine. Also in 2011, I was the recipient of the Rhysling Award in long form for my poem "The Sea-King's Second Bride"; "Dogstar Men" was a short form finalist that same year. Both can be found in my poetry collection How to Flirt in Faerieland and Other Wild Rhymes.

A three-minute trailer for Miscellaneous Stones: Assassin can be found here:

Thank you so much for your time,

Claire Cooney


Jun. 23rd, 2014

Gobin Fruit




My poem in the new Goblin Fruit is called "Steal Me."

I wrote it because of a boy.

But then I thought, "You know, like so many things, it's really more about the women in my life..." SO I DEDICATED IT TO THEM INSTEAD!

This one's for Delia Sherman and Ellen Kushner. There is a recording attached. Naturally.


Jun. 21st, 2014

Sol Claire

Exeunt, Pursued By A...

A Scene from Our Sky House...

(background: Sita has just learned how to make KETCHUP.)

Sita: Shall I just leave it in this dish, but cover it with plastic wrap?
Sita: (makes face)
Me: Do we have a proper squeezy bottle?
Sita: Only the one the mayonnaise is in. The mayonnaise needs to be... refreshed.

(The mayo, which we made with olive oil several weeks ago, is distinctly runny and yellow at present.)

Sita: What?
Me: (falls off chair laughing)
Sita: No, really, what?
Me: Mayonnaise! (gasp) EXEUNT! (giggle)
Sita: Did you say "Pursued by a Bear"?
Me: (more calmly) It's a famous stage direction from Shakespeare. Because (dangerous burble) it's FUNNY! So that's two funny things! Because Mayonnaise is ALSO FUNNY!

(a little while later) (after nearly strangling on my own peculiar sense of humor)

Sita: Do you want to...
Me: NO!
Sita: I just wanted to ask...
Me: I HAVEN'T DONE ANY WORK TODAY! I said at 10:30 AM I had work to do, and then we ate brunch, and then we took a long walk, and then we napped, and then we looked at maps, and then we ate beautiful food, and now it's five o' clock already and I need to work so you cannot ASK ME TO DO ANY MORE FUN STUFF EVER, OKAY?
Sita: Okay!
Sita: Are you going to go work now?
Sita: Well then.. (comes after me like a bear) EXEUNT!!!


It's Paradise over here, folks.


And now, really.

I must work. I have 3 more chapters to read through/comb through/tweak and tighten before I start SUBMITTING this BEAUTIFUL MONSTER to the GREAT AGENT QUEST!

And then I have to finish writing "The Witch in the Almond Tree" because now it's on a deadline, because...

Well. You'll see.


Jun. 19th, 2014


FEED YOUR FACE! (Which Rhymes, Gratifyingly, with NICOLE KORNHER-STACE!)

HI, HI, HI! Excuse me, everyone, HALLO!

I just wanted to take a moment here to talk about FEED YOUR FACE, Nicole Kornher-Stace's ETSY shop for her VEGAN CARAMELS.


I wrote a poem about her caramels once, in the style of OGDEN NASH (see below), because I couldn't help it, they were JUST THAT GOOD.

And I wanted to signal boost her, because if you happen to be going to READERCON this year, and you don't want to pay shipping fees, she will BRING YOUR ORDER RIGHT TO YOU!

Also, even if you AREN'T going to Readercon, you should REALLY REALLY KNOW about FEED YOUR FACE!

She's trying to replace her car, and could really use the orders right now!

Birthdays? Anniversaries? Something nice for yourself? Just 'cause? THIS IS THE WEBSITE FOR YOU!!! I get them for gifts. And then I get some more for myself. And then I get them for gifts but keep them for myself. It's a vicious cycle.

Nicole says:

a.) you'd like to place an order from my Etsy shop
b.) hate paying shipping,
c.) will be at Readercon,
I can make 'em and hand 'em to you there for no shipping cost.
Just let me know in advance what you want and I'll make up a custom preorder without the shipping.

(Same goes for WFC this November. Same goes for anyone I see in person in real life.)
Thanks! Still looking to replace the car, so I really appreciate every order.


Nicole Kornher-Stace's
Dark Chocolate Salted Caramels.
And Venice.
In the style of Ogden Nash.

(best if read aloud)


I often time-travel back to fair Venetia
Round about the Rinascimento
And as proof of my adventure, I tend to pocket
Some doodad or token or memento

So, on the festival of St. Stephen's Day
I meet this classy courtesan named Francesca
Who wines and dines me in great style
With dishes of olives and fresh bread and puttanesca

She crowns the whole affair with dessert
Served in a silver bowl or salver
A heap of dark chocolate salted caramels
Over which we salivate and palaver

And though we mostly gobble up the lot
I save the last morsel, wrap it up in paper and purloin it
As evidence that, indeed, I do hobnob through the ages
Feasting on delicacies and chatting with Doges and in general enjoying it

But when I come back to the 21st century,
And unwrap my caramel with the object of comparing it
To Nicole Kornher-Stace's own burnt sugar creations
I realize that, alas, there is no bearing it!

For 'though Serenissima, City of Palaces
Can boast merchant princes and kings of the maritime
Even its most delicious desserts cannot begin to compare
With Nicole Kornher-Staces dark chocolate salted caramels which are, if you'll pardon my saying, TRULY SUBLIME!

Jun. 16th, 2014

Tall One


Sequence 01.Still002

The Banjo Apocalypse Crinoline Troubadours
are friends, writers, performers, and musicians who’ve banded together
from as far as Glasgow, Scotland,
to the northern reaches of Ottawa, Ontario,
to the coastal splendor of Westerly, RI
to share their work with the world.

Join C.S.E. Cooney, Amal El-Mohtar, and Caitlyn Paxson,
as these Apocalypse Gals wail their folk ballads, rock their mythic poetry,
and dramatize excerpts from their speculative fiction.

For a few samples of our work, visit our SMOOCHABLE WEBSITE:

Or find us on FACEBOOK!


The Buttery House Concert
Dorcester, Massachusetts
Where? The Buttery
What Time? Wednesday, July 9th
7 PM - 10 PM

Opening Act: The Midnight Belles
(Goth Folkies Faye Ringel and April Grant)
Second Act: Celtic Elvis
(Jeremy Cooney, Guitar)

Free. Donations accepted. Reservations required.
Email: aprilcatherinegrant at gmail dot com to reserve seating.


Burlington, Massachusetts
Where? Burlington Marriott, "Inspire" Room
What time? Friday, July 11th
4 PM

Guest Writers: Patty Templeton and Nicole Kornher-Stace

Readercon Registration Fee


Westerly, Rhode Island
Where: Maize N Manna Wholefoods
What Time: Sunday, July 13th
6 PM - 9 PM

Opening Act: Guest Artist "Celtic Elvis"
(Jeremy Cooney, Guitar and Vocals)

Canned Foods or Dried Goods to benefit The Jonnycake Center of Westerly
 Our local food bank and thrift store.

(A tip jar will also be passed, to help out the artists!)

Come and join us.
We can assure our audience of an

Banjo_apocalypse- tatoo blue

Jun. 7th, 2014


Infatuations, Hair Dye, Bicycles, Universities (A Hodge Podge)

The other day, Sita and my buddy Erica M and I went to the DRIVE-IN MOVIE THEATRE at Misquamicut Beach. We went to watch 16 Candles.

It was hilarious, the whole episode.

The movie was appalling and enjoyable, and it made me want to watch The Dead Zone again just to revel in Anthony Michael Hall, and every time the screen went black (it happened often, just for an instant, some technological problem), we started giggling, because it would have made a great drinking game.

But we weren't drinking, except for ICE CREAM FLOATS. That's right, FLOATS. At the DRIVE-IN MOVIE THEATRE! Can you think of anything more delicious? Sita had made popcorn, too, and Erica brought IPA, but we didn't even get to crack those. Actually, I don't care too much for IPAs, so that was okay.

But, so, on our way to get the ICE CREAM FLOATS (we didn't know that's what we'd be drinking, only that we wanted ice cream), we passed some pre-teens (also attending 16 Candles) walking around the beach in their pajamas. And we realized that THEY trumped US in the "How To Go to the Drive-In Movies" game.

Next time, pajamas!

As we were walking, we were speaking of the Male of the Species (as one does), and I mentioned, "Right now I'm more or less clean of all infatuations. My mind is my own again. I feel wholly myself for the first time in nearly a year. Here I am. I'm a little bit more boring, because I'm used to me. I'm not occupied by alien hormones. But I feel accomplished - I've been getting a lot done. And that makes me proud. And happy. And clean."

It's an interesting feeling. I'll relax into it for a while. It reminded me of hair dye. Why? Okay. I 'splain.

A few months ago, after being bright blonde last summer, blood-red last autumn, and stripped to dark roots/light tips for most of the winter, I dyed my hair a close approximation of my natural color. It's a dark honey blonde. When it's wet, it's brown with highlights. But in the sun it gleams. It's not startling and glorious and SUN-COLORED the way I like it, but you know what? It's RELAXING. I have about three or four inches or roots right now, and YOU CAN'T EVEN TELL. Because it's the SAME COLOR (which is really ALL KINDS OF COLORS) as the rest of my hair. That restlessness I sometimes get to change, to heighten, to highlight, to MAKE EXTREME is taking second place to the fact that I am really just enjoying... Not having to CARE.

That's what it feels like, to have released my desire. A friendly fellow-feeling for everyone. A peacefulness. Perhaps not the most INTERESTING or FABULOUS, but also not TORTUROUS or WORRISOME. I have withdrawn my desire. I have put my hair back to the place of rest.

Also, speaking of hair, Sita and I decided to give up buying conditioner. We're making this lovely concoction of water, apple cider vinegar, and honey. It works wonders! It makes my hair smell like honey.

Next stop, DIY deodorant. Kiri suggests coconut oil, a little scent, and some baking soda. Or was it powder? I don't know. I will look it up and find EZZACT PROPORTIONS. It's very exciting.

For shampoo (and soap, and laundry detergent, occasionally), we use Doctor Bronner's Castile Soap Peppermint, and I don't ever get tired of it.

But do you know who I AM in love with this summer? MY BICYCLE. Ms. Monkeyshine Brown, AKA "Golden Bicycle of Glory." She writes me love letters on Facebook, and I respond, because I love people who lavish me with attention and invite me places, and so she does, my best bicycle friend.

Dear Ms. Cooney, she writes,

Because I am DYING of love for you, I would love to take you on a beach picnic date tomorrow on your FABULOUS DAY OFF! Please do not reject me. Let me show you Watch Hill as you have NEVER seen it before.

Love, your very favoritest bicycle ever,

Ms. Monkeyshine Brown

And because I answer letters, especially love letters (these days, the only reason we write letters is because we love the people to whom we're writing enough to write to them letters in the first place. So they're all love letters, aren't they?), I said to her, sez I,

Dear Golden Bicycle of Glory,

Dost not know thou art a machine powered by mine own heart? And yet methinks thou sometimes runneth on HYPERBOLE. But the best ones always do. It is a DATE. Barring lightning, which too soon doth cease to be.

Your pal,


It is good to be in love with things that love you back. Even if (especially if) you are the thing that loves you back. You can always be assured of the sort of invitation that thrills you to the bones. I shall have me a picnic on the beach tomorrow. And I shall be very happy. Perhaps I will even bring a book. A BOOK! On the beach! The RAPTURE! The ECSTASY!

But first I shall have a Skype Date with Mir. And also a Phone Date with Mrs. Q.

Oh. The thing about Universities. Right. (That reminds me. I had a creepy University dream the other night.)

Once upon a time in 2002, I auditioned for this school's theatre conservatory and didn't get in. Now, I got into this school ACADEMICALLY (which was rather flattering), but not into their theatre program. And I said to them (in my head), "SCREW YOU! You don't want the best of me, you ain't getting ANY of me!"

And then I ended up at Columbia College Chicago.

And I think that's how I talk to my infatuations in my mind, too. Only it's reversed. It's not a "Screw You." It's more of a, "I get it. You wanna be my friend. Well, I'm good at that. I make a good friend. You can have it. But you don't get the rest too. I withdraw my attention."

And I think that must be a relief to more than myself! Because so often, they never ASKED for my attention in the first place. It's just there, beaming like a great radioactive light. Writing poetry. Singing songs. If I could play the guitar, I'd be the doofus serenading beneath their moonlit window. It's the way I am. It's kind of creepy. ...

...So it's nice, for a while, not to have to be like that. To dwell in metaphorical ACADEMIA, instead of making it into the specialized ARTS.

It's surrender, sure. But not all surrenders are bad.

And I am quite digging my June.

Goodnight, Flist. Goodnight, Blog. Goodnight, Moon.


Jun. 4th, 2014

Writerly Writer

"Finishing the Hat" - Or, Rather, Novel

Dear Flist, Dear Blog, Dear World,

I have finished the Third Draft of

Miscellaneous Stones:
Tavern Wench
Muffin Maid
Animal Rescuer

Do you find it anticlimactic to announce in so dramatic a fashion the Grande Finale of a piece of work for the THIRD TIME?

I don't, but I can see that you might.

The First Draft is a glorious vomit, isn't it? It's all so very joyful and raw, and afterwards, one feels giddy and accomplished, and LOOK I MADE A THING, and everyone coos over it, like it's a new baby, but like a new baby, its skull is VERY SOFT and it still needs to be fed, and it wakes up crying in the night, and all those MESSES and it doesn't even have TEETH.

A book ought to have teeth, oughtn't it?

And then there's the Second Draft. Wherein you (or more specifically, I) take the 50,000 word literary equivalent of the results of retroperistalsis and scoop it up into some kind of viable shape, usually bloated, wherein world-building takes precedence over plot and forward momentum, and extravagant displays of your MOST VERY FANCIEST vocabulary shimmy and shake and do the sloppiest sort of can-can across the pages.

The second draft is 86,000 words, which is REASONABLE, but the beginning makes no sense and the middle is a saggy-bloated-self-indulgent (so your nice beta readers say, in the nicest possible way) pregnant-Shelob of a viscous mess, and the thing needs to be SKEWERED with Glamdring in one hand and Orcrist in the other, then burnt to a socket and baptized in nitroglycerin, and then maybe it'll be something worth reading.

And you THINK that's what the Third Draft will be about. Oh, it's a BREEZE, you think, the HARD PART is already OVER THE RAINBOW, PAL O' MINE.

Except the Third Draft then becomes trying to make Michelangelo's David out of a block of cement using nothing but your teeth.

No word remains the same. You realize that the info dump in the middle? REALLY ought to be unpacked into a series of quick, entertaining, but also illuminating chapters at the beginning.

You need to balance ACTION SCENES with those quiet character scenes that you love, that you think are actually NECESSARY (though not perhaps wholly SANCTIONED by the Bone Fide "Way to Write A Novel in the West" Hegemony, and who knows? THEY'RE PROBABLY RIGHT! Who am I to say? Except that I like the quiet scenes), and you need, you ABSOLUTELY NEED to make your protagonist a bit less of a THREE DAY OLD PARTIALLY COOKED SPAGHETTI NOODLE into something a bit more, shall we say, AL DENTE! (S'il vous plaît et GRAZIE!)

And in the meantime, obviously you hadn't world-built enough, and the stuff you had takes the form of impartial British-narrator Eye of God expository, and you really want something more intimate, don't you, something that sits RIGHT ON THE SHOULDER of your doughty wee protagonist, occasionally hopping right behind her eyeballs or sitting in her churning stomach. And sometimes, maybe three times in the entire book, widening that lens and letting it fly to an enraged, psychopathic (and yet, with this new draft, sometimes even SYMPATHETIC) sister, or her enraged, psychopathic TOTES ADORBS niece (it's a family of pyschopaths, except the protagonist, who's allergic), or her quite sane best friend, who doesn't know why the protagonist is floating three stories up with sparks coming out of her hair.


And on top of ALL OF THIS, Ysabeau Wilce told you VERY SPECIFICALLY that she wanted a little GRAVEYARD SEX in this draft, and when Ysabeau Wilce, the author of the Flora Segunda books, which you read all of - SEVERAL TIMES - tells you to do something, you DO IT! And then add another fun scene in a wintry garret as well, just so that she'll like you.

Also, Delia Sherman requested more gender-bending in general. Or "Floomping" as you've heard it called. You gave Delia Sherman a whole Festival of Floomp. Because she is Delia Sherman, and you love her. The word "floop" you stole directly from the Glorious Women of WisCon. You will doubtless remember to mention the originators of the word in your acknowledgements, should this project ever come to need an acknowledgements page. I think Julia Rios actually knows their names. You must remember to ask Julia Rios.

And then, after six months of labor, you finish your book. Yet again.

And you think, all right. Now all I have to do is write a synopsis. And a cover letter. And find out the names and email addresses of ALL THE AGENTS. And put your business hat on. And try to get an agent. And a contract. And a deal.

Now is ALSO the time to find out if the last six months meant anything at all...

...Or if, in fact (nightmare), your manuscript has gotten progressively worse as you worked on it.

It's certainly longer - at a little over 100,000 words. You'd wanted it LESS bloated, not more so.

And you try to remind yourself that muscle weighs more than fat. And you think this thing, while perhaps not LEAN, is sinewy.

And you remember that Amal El-Mohtar once said your writing was full of "muscular velocity" and how all you want in life is to fulfill that description, and you hope, this time, that Miscellaneous Stones: Assassin, does.

Things I noticed about process this round:

1.) Chewing gum keeps me focused. (It's also sometimes tea, sometimes chocolate, sometimes nuts... Some kind of oral fixation? But chewing gum lasts the longest and is the least horrible to the health. Tea comes next. After a while, switch to herbals, because... Whoa. Coming off a caffeine addiction after six months of wintry weather and writing = MAJOR THREE-DAY HEADACHE.)

2.) I have to be constantly reading or listening to audiobooks while writing. I know that Stephen King can't do this, because it's the whole Milk and Onions thing for him. But I'm not worried as much about sounding like ALL MY INFLUENCES EVER as I am about drying up and losing battery. I need to know, all the time, I need to know in my BONES, that books can be FINISHED PRODUCTS. That they can make it out onto the world, onto the page, into my ear. And that they can be pleasurable experiences. I need to remember how much I love books, and how happy they make me, how happy story makes me, while my own is still making me wretched. While it's making me bleed. I need to remember that the writing process is FINITE. Or at least CERTAIN PROJECTS are.

3.) Walking. Walking, walking, walking, walking, walking.

4.) Lighting candles. Filling the room with a certain heat and light and smell that I associate with writing.

5.) Writing facing a window. (Also, if I am writing 8, 9, 10 hours, I move around the house, following the light, following the sky. But always facing a window, somewhere.)

And on that night, I give you my favorite song about writing.

Which is a song, actually, about painting - "Finishing the Hat" - as sung by George Seurat in Sondheim's "Sunday in the Park with George." The song starts in earnest at about 1:15. Some lyrics first...

"...Finishing the hat
How you have to finish the hat
How you watch the rest of the world
From a window
While you finish the hat

Mapping out a sky
What it feels like, planning a sky
How it feels when voices that come
Through the window, go
Until they distance and die
Until there's nothing but sky

And how you're always turning back too late
From the grass or the stick
Or the dog or the light
How the kind of woman willing to wait

Not the kind that you want to find waiting
To return you to the night
Dizzy from the height
Coming from the hat, studying the hat..."

May. 28th, 2014


Egg Yolks, Eyes Open In the Rain (Tampopo)

She watches a lot of documentaries.
I don't. I find documentaries difficult.
I like them, but choosing to watch them?

So a few months back she said there was this Werner Herzog documentary.
Or maybe a Werner Herzog interview. Maybe on Youtube.
And she said that he said that we need new images in cinema.
She said, "We need new images. Not just in cinema."
Both agreed it was a matter of survival.


I had never seen a man die in the street in the rain before.
No, I've seen that. That's not new. That's in the movies.
Men die in the street all the time.
But die on his back, looking at the sky.
With rain in his eyes.
His eyes open in the rain. His eyes filling with rain - not tears.
Rain, not tears.
This is important.
Full, wet eyes. Spilling over. Not with tears.

The baby at the breast I've seen.
The child and the ice cream. The ubiquitous noodles.
The transformation from mouse to woman.
The man with an eye always on the window.
The fight scene - pure Big Country, transported.
The oyster in the palm, the blood, the tongue, the sea-salt girl, the man in white.
These are things I know.
From Sade, from Quills, from porn, from books, from something.
From what, I don't know.
Things I've heard or talked about or read or saw in a painting.
Things I somehow know.
Which are beautiful to see again.

The woman rising from her deathbed. Yes.
She cooks her family one last meal. Yes, yes.
Crying and eating. Eating and raging. Crying and raging and eating.
Death and appetite. Grief and service. Rage, vocation, demand.
The things that suck you dry. That call you from the brink. One last time.
All familiar. Like a good ghost story.

All good ghost stories are familiar.

The trains.
The trains that take the dead away.
The trains that carry souls away.
This, I know.
This, I've even written.

But I could not have imagined the egg yolk.

Nor will I ever see an egg yolk without imagining that again.

No, an egg yolk will never be the same again.

To see that egg yolk, passing from his mouth to hers.
Hers to his. His to hers.
To his, to hers, to hers.
To see that egg yolk becomes a matter of survival.


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