Left Jackson but there's still some unfinished business that has yet to be addressed. I need to figure out my living situation going forward because I'm living in a winter rental in Seaside Park that's only good until a little before mid-May. This place is being shared with my sister's father-in-law who is waiting for his house to close so he can get himself a vehicle and acquire more permanent housing. I am not going to bank of being part of his permanent housing when that comes around. I need to find my own way.

Next week I'm going to submit applications for affordable places and at least get myself on waiting lists then hope for the best.

This week will be one of adjustment. I really do not want to talk about the situation in Jackson. Let's just leave it as the landlord is an asshole who illegally violated my privacy, triggered my long-buried PTSD, and I'm safe.

I haven't touched the current draft of my story in a while and probably for the best. I'll have fresh eyes, spot what really needs work, and complete yet another revision. On the other hand I still write a tiny bit, mostly on Mastodon, when I participate in the Wandering Shop Stories (#wss366) where wandering.shop gives a word as a writing prompt.
It's fun.

Other story ideas are coming to me. Mostly being filed for later even if later never comes.


Alien songs and weird sights overwhelmed Citizen Mellish's senses during his first hour at the station's Zócalo. A heavenly scent from a tiny stall made his mouth water. Behind its counter, in a ridiculous chef's hat, was a dragon-ish biped stirring purple broth in a pot.
"That smells wonderful. Can I try?"
"First one's free!" chirped the chef, "My hatchlings make the tastiest #stock. Slaughtered this morning!"
The little Brood was right. So delicious that he didn't feel guilty.


Exiled from Earth, the human only carried a bag with 3 days of clothes and an old Assistant. He was stereotypical of Earth being tall and heavier than the spacers of Centauri #Dock V who floated like wraiths about him.
One dared approach and gestured with caution being raised on fables about groundpounders.
He was blunt as e was delicate, "No, I am not going to eat you," then recited his itinerary of touring Earth's eucemenopolises, his failure to find a home within the forests of Tau Ceti and those troubles still haunting him, then how he was only here to watch Proxima rise and set over Euthalassia and find himself again.
"Will you return?" was spoken to his surprise.
"Nah. You can never go home again. I mean we're both forty-sixers but you'd be crushed in planetfall. I'd be crushed knowing it'd never be the same."
E nodded for the Terran's sake. "You can always come back here" e signed in the air.
The Terran. The ogre. The Earthman gestured gratitude and turned, wiping his eyes once he was out of sight.


"Instructor Tareg! We believe we have translated some of the language of the extinct natives."
"Fascinating. How did you find context?"
"Quite simple. It appears to be a repetitive rhyme for preparing a holiday feast. The models made short work of it."
"Continue, Derit."
"It cites a nutrient produced by females of this clade, then a bitter drink, and a citation of a theobromine-producing crop. In the original, '#Milk, milk, lemonade...'"

Valid xHTML Transitional!