This one is probably the roughest first draft I've ever completed, but there is goodness lurking behind the rough. Some stewing, some editing, some feedback, some more editing -- there will be a good story, in the end.

Progress Notes:

"Star Anise, Paprika, Nutmeg, Rosemary"

Words today: 2,259 (whoa, what?)
Words total: 3,833
Reason for stopping: draft
Mail: DeVotchKa ticket for their 9th April show in London! I have it on good faith that they are even more awesome live than on CD.

Darling:

Perhaps, I think, as the rumbles of my stomach join the conversation-noise, this Carrenei-world will have real meat and real soil for us to grow more flavourful foods in. The spice farm guards its soil-secrets closely--our location is a secret, our soil-stores are heavily guarded. We have had thieves try to steal from us. If only we had enough soil, we would gladly share it; but we do not, and we will not. Our flavours are important, my parents always say. Without them, we would surely go mad from bland foods.

I remember tasting meat from the last cow, a stunted, knee-high thing that died after only a few days out of the growing vat. A year later, the vat malfunctioned and we didn’t know how to fix it.

Mean things: Finding out that the themed issue I was writing this to submit to closed ahead of schedule. Alas, alack. Instead I will use this story, when it is edited, as part of my goal to have a pro sale by the end of the year.
Amusing things: Writing the phrase 'the last cow' and immediately imagining it said in the same way as the rhino-things in Ice Age say 'the last dandelion' and the dodos say 'the last melon.'
Research: Various spices, the plants they grow from.

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Off to see Beowulf tonight, in 3D. I haven't read the epic poem, so I shall see how it holds up simply as a film.

Tags: sa-p-n-r, short fiction