where the writers are
Work spreads its red invasion

The razor nicked my nose this morning. Third time in two months. Trudged outside in my underwear. I live in the country, so who cares? Plunged my hand into the dark water to crank the main valve. Water wearied the pipes again; I imagined them stiffening under the sudden pressure. We leave it off at night to minimize the leak. I stayed up too late, making that early morning shower wobbly and slow. It didn't shriek from the shower head, but burped, mumbled, grumpy with air. The water failed to clear my head. My damn razor glinted slyly. I should have noticed that before raising it to my face.

Last night, while I was typing on that frowning flash story, I glanced to my right and there was a spider on my shoulder, all crawly and pricked with evil hair. I almost shrieked like a little girl. I knocked it off my shoulder and it disappeared. I finished the story with my bare feet planted on the wall, alert for any sensation of invasion. I twitched at breaths of air.

A lunch meeting today at work. Joy. Work spreads its red invasion everywhere. Work appears in my notebook, on my phone as email, as late-night server alerts warbling the baby awake, as sneaky typing on vacations that cause my wife to scowl, as gray hair. If I didn't have to work, I could write a million words a day, I think. Maybe not. But let's keep the illusion; words are not about real life. There is enough real life in real life. Let's allow the words to play.

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