Mourn the memories later

After a long drought of (even vaguely) meaningful stories while I slaved over novel revisions, it appears I’m full of piss and vinegar and bad ideas.

I want to write about death’s head moths and women in white with teeth and scales inside them. I want to write about the reanimated skeleton of a shaman with a hand-stitched suit, made from the flesh of those he’s helped (but only for a price). I want to write about the Four Horsemen walking barefoot across Alamogordo, New Mexico during the Trinity atomic tests. I want to write about a girl who sells her soul. I want to write about a Real Doll who drinks blood to come to life. I want to write about a man whose medical fetishism spirals into violent obsession. I want to write about cicadas and centipedes and children living in crawl-spaces. I want to write about angels who breathe smoke. I want to write about carnival side-shows and beast-men and dandy rhinoceroses. I want to write about people with gateways to other places living inside them. I want to write about octopuses. Because I always want to write about octopuses.

Now let’s see if anything good actually comes of this.