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Still unsure about including COVID-19 in my novel-in-progress, but hey, whoa, Fleet--!!!
"He heard the scrabble of the ghoul's claws on the basement steps, and thought: *OMG do I have time for one last Fleet*
"So, we Fleeted on, phones against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the era of G+.”
"She stared across the table at him, drumming her fingers on the table."
"I meant it," he muttered.
"Fleets or it didn't happen, you lying bag of hair."
"I meant it," he muttered.
"Fleets or it didn't happen, you lying bag of hair."
No live organism can continue for long to Fleet sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to DM.
"The slate tiles slipped beneath his fingers--he was moving faster and faster--thinking of blistered hands at the plow as he struggled before Glasgow--green moss flashing past--and then he was flying in the open air, like a rogue Fleet escaping into the embrace of the void--
"Will no one," he growled, pulling his ermine-collared cloak closer, "rid me of this errant Fleeter. I tire of his churlish vigor."
The Fleet, she mused, cared nothing for memory. It had never heard of LiveJournal, knew nothing of DiaryLand, would pass a dust-enrobed printing press without even being aware of its existence. She drank, because it was required in the moment.
"You want to Fleet?" he said. "Honey, bless you're heart, but I think we're talking different Fleets."
The ghost flickered in and out of existence, like a Fleet in the moment before eternity.
