Monera Mason is a mischief-maker.  Her work includes: starting questionable cults with notorious software gurus, writing abstract fiction, catalyzing shenanigans which she deploys on unsuspecting bystanders in the City of Neon. 

Tales in Thread

The last few days have been a bit of a writing slump. I needed a break from the grind of shorts to submissions and felt like characters had yet to take form in any real way. This happens with tricky characters you have to wait out the coloring in. They choose their substantiation I document.

I am also in the midst of a conspiracy and its been eating at my brain--the guessing, Though not so much chewing on puzzles, my mind is lacking that stretching from a good game of chess. Of course, it is here where the danger lies for then I seek out opponents which is the opposite of hermitude. Some cycles need destruction until a new path can be found. Luckily, I built daughters capable of strategic gameplay and craving exploration.

I have been world building in tread. A floating flat land shimmering its blue seas against the cold blackness of the galaxy. Moon and sun ever present. Young Three took this world as her own and demands her unicorn be adorned with such lands. I am working on another with eye-shaped hills and doors that open into geodesic ponds. Here I mastered the knots of colonialism.

Three has been giving me horn lessons which is how all Mericorn's do magic. As you age your horn becomes invisible to even you, however, this does not dissipate the magic, adults simply stop trying. She has developed a re-education to teach me how to use my horn but it requires going back to basics. Once a week I submitt to restorative lessons created by a wild second grader who is determined to revive this part of myself.

There is a bottle of drowning poems in my room. Blue bees guard it and are waiting for the mother to molder the paper and dissolve the words. Such words were lies and their decay has been slow going. A rune spell around the oldest object and fluffs of hair which comprise a quest that is destined for a desert burial.

Mythos is harder in the making than the telling. What pleasure must bardic life be as recitation is not the same as the living? How many singers live like scavengers on the lives of others never amounting to more than pleasant historians?

Week One

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