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Cast your bread upon the waters...
Jun. 20th, 2005 11:26 amAnd it shall return to you after many days? We shall hope not. We shall _fervently_ hope not.
Sent GHOST POINT off to the Nice Agent Lady this morning, many pounds of used paper, and would prefer that she declare it simply marvelous and ready to thrill the Nice Editor Lady. Consummation devoutly to be wished.
In other news, I have done my bit for anomalies in New England weather by setting up the window air conditioner. Only took a few minutes, even counting the time spent puzzling out all the bits and pieces I cobbled together to fit the beast to our decidedly non-standard windows.
We now return you to your regularly-scheduled cold and rain.
And a bit extracted from Chapter II of the aforementioned manuscript....
Den froze between one step and the next. Pete had stopped bounding around and playing with the new snow, was staring off into the shadows, ruff standing up on the coyote's neck and back, his low growl barely audible over the surf. Den couldn't see a thing, out there in the inky black under the trees. Couldn't hear or smell anything wrong, either, but the coyote could hear a mouse thinking, could smell a snowshoe hare three townships over. Humans might as well be chunks of rock when it came to matching senses with ol' Canis latrans.
The night fell silent around him, a lull between gusts of the fading storm, and Den felt hair rise on the back of his neck. Something moaned, a low animal pain across the darkness. He couldn't begin to guess how far away or even be sure of the direction, but he thought it was toward the base. Sound carried funny over the water.
What the hell would scare a coyote? Bears would be hibernating. Wolves? A lynx? Both rare as hell, the state didn't even admit that there were wolves in Maine. Same with cougars. But Pete slunk away, belly low through the drifts, glancing back and glancing back until he slipped into his pen. Den closed and latched the gate, and he could swear the coyote looked relieved.
He caught a flicker of movement, almost moonlight given shape. His skin prickled. Something glowed faint in the shadows, large, larger than a man, larger even than Dennis. Den shuffled sideways, step by step awkward in the snowshoes, heart racing, not taking his eyes off the . . . whatever, easing back toward the boathouse and a couple of ancient guns that came with the deed. Damned if he knew whether that old side-lock Springfield would still shoot, but it was there, grease-coated relic of the Spanish War and an ancestral Carlsson. Box of shells as big as Den's middle finger. Sort of gun you wanted if you had to argue with a bear.
Sent GHOST POINT off to the Nice Agent Lady this morning, many pounds of used paper, and would prefer that she declare it simply marvelous and ready to thrill the Nice Editor Lady. Consummation devoutly to be wished.
In other news, I have done my bit for anomalies in New England weather by setting up the window air conditioner. Only took a few minutes, even counting the time spent puzzling out all the bits and pieces I cobbled together to fit the beast to our decidedly non-standard windows.
We now return you to your regularly-scheduled cold and rain.
And a bit extracted from Chapter II of the aforementioned manuscript....
Den froze between one step and the next. Pete had stopped bounding around and playing with the new snow, was staring off into the shadows, ruff standing up on the coyote's neck and back, his low growl barely audible over the surf. Den couldn't see a thing, out there in the inky black under the trees. Couldn't hear or smell anything wrong, either, but the coyote could hear a mouse thinking, could smell a snowshoe hare three townships over. Humans might as well be chunks of rock when it came to matching senses with ol' Canis latrans.
The night fell silent around him, a lull between gusts of the fading storm, and Den felt hair rise on the back of his neck. Something moaned, a low animal pain across the darkness. He couldn't begin to guess how far away or even be sure of the direction, but he thought it was toward the base. Sound carried funny over the water.
What the hell would scare a coyote? Bears would be hibernating. Wolves? A lynx? Both rare as hell, the state didn't even admit that there were wolves in Maine. Same with cougars. But Pete slunk away, belly low through the drifts, glancing back and glancing back until he slipped into his pen. Den closed and latched the gate, and he could swear the coyote looked relieved.
He caught a flicker of movement, almost moonlight given shape. His skin prickled. Something glowed faint in the shadows, large, larger than a man, larger even than Dennis. Den shuffled sideways, step by step awkward in the snowshoes, heart racing, not taking his eyes off the . . . whatever, easing back toward the boathouse and a couple of ancient guns that came with the deed. Damned if he knew whether that old side-lock Springfield would still shoot, but it was there, grease-coated relic of the Spanish War and an ancestral Carlsson. Box of shells as big as Den's middle finger. Sort of gun you wanted if you had to argue with a bear.
