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"Sherlock," said the Doctor, "I observed in the pile of papers to post a large and inexplicable cheque for the Widows and Orphans Fund."
"Eleemosynary, my dear Watson," the great detective said.

Somewhere else in this country it's Friday, so for my first :

@paralithode for gentle day-end meditations

@mooncake for educational readalongs

@pollyguo because Polly is pure magic

A fragment of Trametes versicolor, or Turkey Tail, saprophytic on a corporate lawn.

Ray Bradbury, in "The Affluence of Despair": "In sum, we wear our hearts on our sleaze."


I'm always years behind, but these are some of the works I enjoyed that came out in 2017:

Game: Night in the Woods

Novel: Amatka, Karen Tidbeck

Graphic Novel: Monstress vol. 2, Marjorie Liu

Short stories:
"Clearly Lettered in a Mostly Steady Hand," Fran Wilde

"Fandom for Robots," Vina Jie-Min Prasad

"Carnival Nine," Caroline Yoachim

"The Last Meal He Ate Before She Killed Him," Malcom Devlin, You Will Grow Into Them

"Well, I was out running around the old oxbow, and I heard something, but I couldn't see clearly. It was too dark, and my sight's pretty watery. Could have been one fishy character or two, and I'm not sure of the color of their shirts, red or blue..."

What he had here, the forestry officer realized, feeling an increasing sense of despair, was a babbling brook.

"Dam it," the officer said. "Shut UP. I was just fishing for information!"

Published four short stories this year. A fifth is hiding somewhere in Rocketwerkz' game, Living Dark.

1. "The Wretched and the Beautiful," Terraform (Feb)

2. "The White-Throated Transmigrant," (June)

3. "The View From the Top of the Stair," Hazlitt (Sep)

4. "A Quiet Night in the Library," Hellboy: An Assortment of Horrors, (Aug) (not awards-eligible, but all kinds of fun)

A peaceful end of the year to you all.

Stephen King, On Writing: "I'm looking for ways to do that [resonance] without spoon-feeding the reader or selling my birthright for a plot of message."


E. Lily Yu boosted

The conflation of wealth with happiness is sometimes so sadly pervasive in our discourse.

There are times when I want to just shake folk and shout:

"It's a lie! A big stinking lie! You don't have to play the fucking game! Happiness is not found in slips of paper! Except maybe if you're doing origami! Or papier-mâché! Papier-mâché can be fun! Or playing a game of cards with friends! But otherwise, paper slips do not equal happiness! Oh, yes, confetti is fun too! But regardless!"

Rising flood waters were threatening the stores on Main Street. The proprietors arranged to have their turn-of-the-century buildings raised on cinderblocks until the floods passed. They were all promptly thrown into jail. Show more

Update: Make that up to five guiros and six murders.

There's some kind of night bird outside that croaks twice like a guiro then screams about three times like a murder victim and I'd really love to know what it is

Be a good friend to yourself. No one else is guaranteed to always stay with you no matter how angry you are at them, carry your bags, like the same things you like, swear at the same things you swear at, travel with you, buy you chocolate and coffee, and be with you when you die. (Except God, but that's opt-in.)

Sand again, beautifully, in the same letter: "A few engravings after Raphael, a mat of Spanish jute to stretch out on, some good pipefuls, the clever little cat Trozzi, flowers, some well-chosen books, and above all, poetry (oh, language of the gods that I also understand but cannot speak!), isn't that enough for an artist's loft? ... Haven't we known beautiful days? Haven't we been the dutiful children of a God who blesses simple souls?"

@Sololoso And who was apparently a collaborator on these letters.

@Sololoso These were written for public consumption, only ostensibly to each other. Sand's letters were published in the Revue des deus mondes, Liszt's in the Gazette musicale. So there's lots of dramatic flourish; she writes at the beginning of her letter, "I do not know where you are at present" even though she does know because he just ran off with his pregnant lover, Marie d'Agoult, who, uh, was already married with a kid.

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