Gotta hurry. Gotta hurry.

Byt’s gotta new job. But jobs don’t wait. She gotta get cross town before start time, or some other bugger gonna get it. She up and out of the squat before the suits start chocking up the street. Catch a hand-roll at a stall down at street level, scoff it quick and licking her fingers before she even lining up for tram. Slip in the out door while the tourists and the jobtypes barge out in a vomit of deodorant and stupidity. Bump bump bump against hips and hunker down in the foot well. Open the wallets quick fingers have bought, strip the cash, dump the cards. Byt knows a guy down the markets pay some dollars for wallets. Make twenty bucks off these ones, good.

My old mate Steven Savile has been talking recently about a little game he’s playing with himself: he’s found an extra fifteen minutes in his day and is free-writing, without plan nor strategy, just throwing words down with no expectation to see what comes up. Luscious and I have decided to follow his example. In 2 sessions over the last 2 evenings Luscious has hit up 700 words on a new story, and I’ve managed to throw down just over 1000 words of free-association plotting on a new work of my own.

Byt has a kernel of something, provided I can keep the language on the right side of gibberish. While Ghost Tracks occupies the main part of my thinking, it’s nice to write in an adult frame of mind again. This little palate-cleanser could lead to something new again.

Which would be nice.





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