Matthew S. Rotundo's Pixeltown

The horse and I took a few baby steps last week.  And so Petra Rising proceeds.  Really, really slowly, but it proceeds. Here’s Magic Meter:

Baby steps, man.  Baby steps.

On the plus side, I broke 10K words.  So that’s something.

Your snippet:

Allons said, “Do you know what today is?”

Ferson tensed, as if Allons had just sprung a pop quiz on him.  In the desolation of Farside, it was easy to lose track of days.  He considered a lighthearted response, decided against it.  Humor would probably not play well at the moment.  He figured simple honesty would be his best option.  “No.  Some special occasion?”

Allons snorted.  “Yeah, you could say that.”  He reached for one of the bottles, but only stroked the side of it.  “Real special occasion, Boll.  It’s ten years to the day that we attacked Mainland.”

“Oh.  Jesus.”  Ferson dropped his gaze.  At least he understood Allons’s dark mood now.  It wasn’t the kind of anniversary anyone in New Cassea was likely to celebrate.  “Ten years.”

“Yeah.  I keep track of this shit.  Someone has to.”

No updates for Write Club.

Giddy-up.  Or something like that.

In a previous post, I discussed how difficult it’s been to regain normalcy and productivity.  And it occurs to me that regular progress reports were once part of that normalcy.  Maybe the new normal doesn’t have room for them anymore . . . but maybe it does.  Who knows?  The only thing to do, I guess, is try, and see if they still fit.

I won’t say I’m climbing back on the horse.  Let’s say I’m eyeing it warily.

Since we’re here, I’ll trot out Magic Meter to bring everyone up to speed on Petra Rising:

Well, OK.  That wasn’t so bad, was it?

Since I’m feeling so adventurous, I’ll even post a snippet:

The desert at sunset.

Ferson Boll normally welcomed the end of another day on Farside.  Dusk and dawn were the most temperate times.  One could find just enough solace in the cool of the coming night to make toiling in the fields—with all the attendant dust, sweat, and hard work—worth the trouble.  And the stark hardpan extending to the horizon, backlit by the glow of the setting sun, had its own kind of beauty.

Nightfall was usually Ferson’s favorite part of the day.  But as he wound through the New Cassea settlement, on his way for his weekly bout of drinking with Major Jon Allons, he finally admitted to himself that he didn’t care for these particular nights.  In fact, he had come to dread them.

The horse stands just over there, pawing the ground, eyeing me as warily as I’m eyeing it.  I take a step toward it.

Write Club update:

Oh, far too many to recount here.  Suffice to say there have been a lot of them.

Where’s my saddle blanket?