Went Right Through Me Like Spoiled Tofu

Last night we were lying about, basking in the AC before sleeping, and reading cookbooks full of South Beach Diets. Bridgette came across Tofu Cacciatore. Cacciatore, I am told, means “Hunter Style”. I had a little bit of fun thinking about big game hunters out after tofu, and the dangers of getting too close. We snickered a bit and returned to the cookbooks.

Bridgette did. I stayed out on the veldt with the tofu.

After a couple of minutes I hopped out of bed. “If this takes me longer than ten minutes,” I told Bridgette, “come tell me I don’t need to play anymore tonight. I’m just going to tap this out, really quick.” My intention was to have a mildly humorous journal entry.

40 minutes later, I had the first draft of a mildly humorous short story, 1,117 words.

I feel like I was possessed by the ghost of Patrick McManus. Very odd. I liked it. I sent it to Ed, just to make sure that I hadn’t read something by Patrick M years ago and half-remembered it, writing it as mine…’cause the tone is very like, I think. He says not.

So, I’ll let it sit for a while, and revise it, and send it away.

Whee!

Crossposted from Epinephrine & Sophistry

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