Blame
Cal blamed me for everything: for her, for the car, the road, even the rain. As if I was some god of misadventure, of sorrow-in-waiting. As if I wanted this to happen.
In the end, she would not let me console her, which left me alone, to console myself, and who can do that? Without the best of bards at my side, I was bereft, and that is a singular thing, so far from consoled.
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I am, at best, a rare blogger (unless you include the running blog in my head, which I suppose you won't). I am, however, a seldom One Word-er. :-) The above came from there. I like it; you should give it a go if you think you might like it.
Last week, I submitted a short story and a novelette, plus a reprint of a short story. This week I am editing a short story and a novella, one of which has a terrible ending and the other which has a good start and not much else. Good luck to me.
Here, have some turtle anatomy:
