Eked out another 1400 words on the “Just a Game” rewrite. Or, to make it all Magic Meter-y:
Yeah, I know it’s another subpar showing, but it’s better than last week. And though it might be a tad optimistic of me, I’m getting the sense that I’m overcoming some inertia, that I’m gonna start seeing some real movement here anytime soon.
Seriously. Anytime soon.
Hey, a guy can dream, can’t he?
“Oh, I don’t know.” She set down her mug. “I remember the days before the curse. I remember the day your father led the Stampede to a national championship.”
“I envy you.”
She waved it off. “I was only a grad assistant in those days, and new to the state. I had never seen such devotion to a football team before. The weeks before the game were . . . well, staggering is the only way I can describe it. Everyone was talking about it. Everyone wore Stampede colors. And I don’t just mean here in Whaley. I mean the entire state of Illinois. And the night of the game, after your father threw the winning touchdown”—a dreamy tone crept into her voice—“it seemed like the entire town was celebrating in the streets. Total strangers were cheering and crying and hugging each other. You would have thought we had just won World War II all over again.” She inhaled deeply, eyes half-lidded, then sobered. “But I’m rambling. I know your father isn’t well, Lucas. I’m sorry to hear it.”
Write Club update: A tier one rejection from Daily Science Fiction. Response time, 19 days.