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I'm probably not much for blogging today. I'm a bit dreamsick. The sky out there is as dreary as a sky can get, but at least there are, for today, still green leaves on the tree outside my office window. I don't know what sort of tree it is, even after living with it for eight summers now. Eight summers in New England. That scares the shit out of me. It's an icicle in my bowels. I've gotten old here. Right now, it's 60˚F out there, and there's no sign anywhere of the sun.

These lines from Crimson Peak really put the hook in me:

"But the horror? The horror was for love. The things we do for a love like this are ugly, mad, full of sweat and regret. This love burns you, maims you, twists you inside out. It is a monstrous love, and it makes monsters of us all." ~ Lady Lucille Sharpe

Yesterday, my contributor's copy of Ellen Datlow's The Monstrous arrived. It includes "The Beginning of the Year Without a Summer," one of the few decent pieces of fiction I've written in the last three years. Check it out.

We didn't go to the Tenth Annual Iron Pour last night. I wanted to, but the weather was shitty, and the last few times we've been the crowds have made the event unendurable.

Maybe I'll wake up by seven p.m. or so.

TTFN,
Aunt Beast

Comments

( 1 comment — Have your say! )
sovay
Oct. 25th, 2015 06:14 pm (UTC)
It is a monstrous love, and it makes monsters of us all.

Yes.
( 1 comment — Have your say! )