I'll just go ahead and apologize for how negligent I've been in reading blogs. It might not get much better - there's only one computer with internet capability at home. The wi-fi I, uh, borrow, is so weak it isn't worth borrowing. And Starbucks, rip-off artists, charge for their internet. The travesty...

I feel like I should have a lot to say. I do, actually, but little of it should be said, because secrets are meant to be kept, and so I shall keep mine/those entrusted to me. Since that knocks out most of what I've been thinking lately, I'm just going to freewrite a little something fiction for y'all, because it's been ages. Note, I said 'freewrite', which implies zero editing. So don't expect the next Goose Girl, not like I could produce that on a good day...

My brain is frozen. Give me a second. Or better yet, in the comments, leave random suggestions of what to write about for next time. I need help!

The idea banged against its prison door, tucked in a remote corner of M's brain. "Let me out of here! She needs me, alright? It's my job!"

The guard outside laughed. "Yeah, but this is my job."

The idea kicked the door, causing a resonant metallic ring. "You fool! Causing writer's block is no noble task! All it does is make our human frustrated and mopey - it's a total overload of toxic chemicals. Now open this door!"

"Nice try with the toxic chemicals part. I've guarded ideas like you before. They all said the same thing - let me go or the human will get frustrated, blah blah blah. Now keep quiet in there!"

The idea bit its lips and resumed its pacing. Fifteen steps out, fifteen steps back. Almost fifteen and a half if it took tiny steps. It should be able to escape this. It was a grand idea, after all, full of airplanes and car chases and love and adrenaline and fake deaths -

Yes! That was it. The idea threw itself against the door, making choking sounds. "He--elp!" It coughed like a chronic smoker, with a touch of dying pig for emphasis. "I'm d-dying!" The idea continued these contortions for another moment before it heard keys grating in the lock. Covering its smile, the idea flopped onto the floor and twitched as the guard entered. As the guard knelt, the idea spasmed once, released a quavery breath, and went limp.

One hour later, the idea shook off the sheet covering it, swung off the gurney, and hit the morgue floor with a cocky little laugh. Dusting its hands, it surveyed the dead ideas lined on autopsy tables, discerning causes of death (they could be most instrumental in the idea's...ideas). At the third one, it gasped.

KILLED BY AUTHOR. FLIMSY PLOT. WEAK ANTAGONIST. TOO SIMILAR TO THE DA VINCI CODE.

The idea stepped back, hands over its mouth. So its human was an idea-killer. It shook its head. So, if its ideas weren't brilliant enough, it would be done away with. The idea trembled and gulped. Then it took a deep breath. It was good enough. It was excellent. The idea was so perfect, in fact, it had to appear before the author's cerebral cortex. Right now.

Leaving behind its momentary suspicions - how could it have been so untrusting of its own magnificence? - the idea strolled out of the morgue toward its human, blindly unaware that its dalliance in the morgue cost him ten minutes, in which time another shining idea arrived before the author...

Okay, that's all my brain is producing today. Hasta luego!