Blackhole Grind

Nobody thinks about how it’s done anymore. I’m out on the line for twelve hours. I’m tired, I’m beat. I’m in The Suit, and it’s charged up and buzzing in my ears. I can feel the energy crawling on every inch of my skin. Like a bunch angry ants pouring out of a nest that some kid kicked over for fun. I’m about kick over my own nest by firing an Xray laser into the cookie. The cookie. That’s what we call the atomic cocktail that the orbital factory spits out about once a month. Let me tell you, it

Four Reasons to Write Your Little Heart Out

You are a writer. You didn’t choose to be one, but rather it was born into you—a spirit as old as dwelled in the storytellers around the first fires. When they wove their imaginations in mysterious and delightful ways, akin…
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