From the roof of his house, Andrew can see everything in the town of
Pandora. Right below is his yard of wispy yellow grass that breaks at
the touch. A little ways down is the dead creek, a stinking, mucky
place. And above him, always, is the hand of God. Briefly, he trains
his flashlight on the underside of the hand, studying the lined,
grayish flesh. Then he stares back toward the outskirts of town,
peering through his binoculars at the mushroom farmer’s trailer.The farmer makes a drug. Andrew’s not supposed to know about the drug,
and he certainly isn’t supposed to take it. But the farmer’s daughter
goes to school with all the other kids, so word gets around. He must
have mixed a new batch. The townspeople are lined up all the way back
to the old Sunoco station, their headlamps making a broken ant trail
in the ever-present dusk.
Listen to it while boiling an egg, sewing a dog quilt, or even on your daily commute. Just don't become so engrossed that you hit me with your car, okay?
(Also kind of a little psyched my story was posted right after one by Jeff Fuckin' VanderMeer. If you're not reading Finch right now, what the hell is wrong with you?)
Also, I am thinking about potentially maybe going to a (literary) science fiction convention. Maybe! The convention in question is Capclave which is practically local (Rockville, MD), and there's a lot of people there who I've been talking to online for years but have never met in person due to my dislike of going places and doing stuff. But it isn't quite down the street, and I don't drive, so if anyone is commuting there both days from Baltimore and wouldn't mind letting me ride on your roof rack (or if you're really nice, even in the car), send me an email at my last name at gmail. Alternatively, I wouldn't be totally opposed to staying at the hotel if you're a group of three people and need a fourth. I don't talk a lot and I shower so I'd be a great roommate, I reckon.