Working on what was supposed to be a very short story that I was just going to rattle off in one stream-of-conscious draft and post. It keeps getting longer. And it turned into a period piece almost from the first sentence, so it requires more attention than brain spew.
The story is based on someone explaining that a corpse has more right to bodily autonomy than a pregnant woman. Which set several thoughts in motion that I can pretty much never actually share with anyone who will ever be a parent, or has wanted to be a parent, or briefly thought they were a parent. Because that's the kind of sick cookie I am.
I will probably never finish it. It was meant to be horrifying, and it's only mildly weird, with all of the strange things hinted at and never actually revealed, as yet. However, it's coming in at just over 2500 words, so, for the two days I've invested, I'm only 800-odd words from daily goal if I were working on a National Novel Writing Month novel, which I'm not.
I dreamt last night of catching the attention of a French puppet master who looked like Rene Auberjonois and lusted madly for me. If that's symbolism, I don't want to know for what.
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