Some funny things came out of my head last night.
Curly, lopsided, hanging on to each other like lovesick fools, the alien creatures skittered across the page in strangely familiar lines.
I squinted at them.
Pondered them a spell.
And finally smiled.
I had started a story. A fresh one. The first one since my 17-year old muse passed in April.
Progress, though welcomed, is awful bittersweet at times.