It's approaching that time of year again, when I'm suddenly deprived of 3/4 of the children underfoot by the arcane magick of 'holy-days', and discover several hours of each day that were previously hiding in the missing socks.
So there's a story or two itching to creep along my synapses, stalk motor neurons, pounce on trembling muscle tissue and splurt forth from a blunt, chewed writing instrument and darken the very fabric of space-time and an unwitting piece of paper.