I have hesitated to write about contracting SARS-CoV-2.0 as I did not want any negative feedback surrounding my behaviour, good, bad, or otherwise. However I think people will find that I lived a reclusive life during covid times, and had no interest in contracting the disease. 
After three weeks of extreme fatigue, razor blades in my throat and the obvious inability to work and earn a salary, I am left with what can only be described as "long covid" symptoms. Continuing fatigue, brain fog, and lungs that feel as though I have spent my a lifetime smoking cigarettes. (I do not smoke.)
This (in my opinion) synthetic disease is no bullshit, and even though I was double vaccinated, it would appear to have had no effect on my recovery.
I'll cut this short as I'm a passenger currently and we are about to pushback. YYZ-YVR. On my way home from simulator sessions.
There will be much more fiction in the near future here.
Stay tuned for the next ATIS message.
​LT

This is the story of The America.
A collection of foundation anecdotes detailing how the US became The America. Along with a precision view into the backstories of the characters of The Sequence, and their egress from a home country that no longer exists.

Edition One
​
THE FALL

     News travels, at times, faster than the speed of light. Ideas forming beyond mankind’s ability to broadcast.

     Senator Cook and his surprise Presidential campaign takes flight as polls suggest he could secure a victory in next months election

     “Dallas are you seeing this?”
     “I’m hearing it babe, but all I’m seeing right now is brown and diaper.”

    Cook claims his regime is capable of righting the lean of the nation towards international independence

     “What does that even mean?”
     “Means he wants to make America great again.”
     “Heard that before.”
​
     Cook alleges that the rise of the East, specifically China, has its basis in internal strength

     “Does that mean we are weak Dee? Like as a nation?”
     “I’ve spent a lot of time over there babe. People do as they’re told. Not saying it’s the best way to be, but they’ve got a lot of things right that we don’t. It’s safe over there. No guns.”
     “S’long as you follow their rules, sure. I heard the triads use swords. Is that right?”
     That they do, thought Dallas, attaching velcro straps over Andromeda’s belly. And I would never want to cross those that wield them.

Further to Information Papa, I am super excited to announce that I have made the Final Round of the NYCMidnight 250 word Micro Fiction Challenge with "Wet Work," which I qualified with a second place in my group of 46 writers.
The genre was Sci-Fi, the action was "Pushing someone in a pool," and the word was 'lock.' From 5700+ writers I am now part of the final 125 in a winner takes all 24 hour writing challenge, taking place this Saturday.

Wet Work, by Lucien Telford
     Backyard pools. Scenes for summertime bliss and play, no place for a homicide detective to be spending an autumn evening. 
     “Bot’s not showing anything unexpected, boss,” Fong said while swiping gestures through his glasses, vector graphics displayed in-lens allowing him control of the airborne drone. At their feet, the water writhed with the motion of something living. A reflective swirling metallic sheen blocking light from below its surface.
     Detective Woo reminisced, the ghost of his baby brother fooling around poolside after dark. A slip. A fall. A drowning.
     Not his fault, the psychiatrist would continue to say.
     “No word from the owners?”
     “No responses yet, boss.”
     “The house closed up?”
     “Lock and key.”
     Woo pulled a coin from his pocket, tossed it at the pool. It bounced, coming to rest on the tile. 
     He dragged a wooden deck chair to the pool’s edge. “Help me lift this.”
     Together they hurled it at the reflective layer. The surface protection glitched, momentarily vanishing then reappearing, giving a brief glance at a headless body drifting beneath the water, simultaneously cleaving the chair in two. One half remained below.
     A uniformed officer approached from the home’s rear glass doors. “There’s a severed head visible on the kitchen counter. Scanned and ran it through Facial Recog and got a hit. It’s the home owner’s son.”
​     Pushed their own child into a swimming pool with an active security layer. Not my fault, Woo reminded himself, picking up his coin, his brother’s memory no longer distant.