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Here’s the last paragraph of a story I’m working on.  Not the one about the octopoid alien, alas, but one about a selkie’s daughter, herself a selkie, wherein we learn, among other things, the gristly secret of Wuffa’s harp and that vans that fly get great gas mileage.

She dreamed of swimming beside her mother, surfing the Nahvalr’s bow waves, her front flippers stroking like wings through the lead blue water that slipped between the speckled dark of her fur and the sleek dark of the longship’s hull, of darting aside now and again to suck in a breath, swoop down through a rising shoal of cod or sprat, snatch one away and crunch it between her jaws, the slick oily taste of it sharp and cold on her tongue.  And as she dreamed, the van flew silently on through the dark, snow-swirling air.”

The black cat has been sleeping between my legs, and the white cat was sleeping under the footrest of the recliner.  When I started to sit up, the black cat jumped down, landed on the white one, and hissing happened.  Such is life.

Tomorrow, I have to go to my mom’s and remonstrate with ATT about why she’s getting two bills, and is having to pay for her new modem twice.  After that I’ll shop groceries. I just may go up to Market Street first and get a pound of their luscious brisket and some veggies and stash them at the house before I head to Wally World. Brisket sandwiches. Nom.