Full Moon Fever
It’s a new season. Time to harvest some stories. They’ve been well tended by idle thoughts and ruminations, but the required typing weather was unusually short this year. Keyboards sat idle while fingers flicked phones. While screens glared.
It’s dark outside. Bertrand Russell’s chickens are fast asleep. Even the crops hang their heads in a trusting bow to the autumn wind.
Now — this is the sharpening of the scythe. The donning of gloves for regular work. The moment the flock should fear the shepherd.
A dilettante farmer no more. Soon only feathers and stalks will remain.
The creatures clawing at my unconscious will be free, and they will roam among these pages. But fear not. That’s not blood, and it’s just a nib defiling the complacency of my former existence.