Windsock

I had planned to write at least a few hours every day over the holidays, but was derailed by the drink. Mostly the every-morning coffees with Irish whiskey, but also the wine and/or beer and/or rum that followed. After New Years it took a few days to get back to where I felt immersed in the story again. I managed a few long, productive nights last week. Now I'm infested with rhinoviruses. Workwise it's been a frustrating start to 2015, but I'm still committed to completing the first draft by month's end. T-cells, engage!

Excerpt:

She went back in to warm and Mason rose from the couch where he’d lain drunkly mumbling and pulled on his boots and they went out together. They walked the mile up in the snowfield toward town, staggered by the vagaries of the wind. She heard most. The wind's drone. Mason maundering, whining. The crunch of boots in snow.

Up in the storm above the DEW line station a raven drew a dark arc in the grey, its flight spasmodic, and it made no sound. She wondered how such a breakable thing could persist all winter in this place.

Below the ridge the wind sock glowed horizontal, striped red white red white red. He intoned what could have been a wellworn ditty. “New ar-ri-vals, baaaaby mothers, risk-taking boo… tah-leggers, r’paired elders, the men-ta-lly unwell.”