Ekphrastic Meal Plans
"A wombat should not have made that big a dent in the hotel."
Bill stood back, surveyed the damage. "No." He rubbed his chin. The razor burn from five or so minutes ago still burn burn burned, so he stopped this quite quickly.
The manager had started asking around the gathering crowd if anyone had any aspirin or anything. Bill tried rubbing his forehead for a bit.
When the samurai-sword-wielding arm wrestler who'd checked in late last night decapitated the manager, Bill stopped rubbing altogether and headed for his car to radio for backup. This was not going to be a pleasant morning. The stench of decaying McDonald's hamburgers and fish o'filets shoving and pushing to exit the car as he opened the door didn't help matters.
Okay. I don't know what's going on. Our service provider doesn't know what's going on.
No one knows what's going on.
With our weekly mails, anyway. So all seven of you who still get the newsletter by mail (one of whom, Hi Mom!, doesn't filter it directly to the trash, Mom? You don't filter it into the trash, do you?), and who happened here by pure chance, well, it's all broken. The internet, your computer, mine, the website, all of it horribly, irreparably broken.
We'll maybe sort it out sometime soon.
In the meantime, enjoy the horoscopes.
Tshirts & clothing: The Sane Magazine Shop at Cafe Press
A Book: Fenway Fiction
A Second Book: Further Fenway Fiction
For you writerly types: Download Writer.app (now at version 1.4.1! Zipee!)
Or, visit our store at Amazon... check out some of the books that inspire or otherwise provoke the Sane Magazine writers.