Gribba
Troubadour
3135 words today... it is going ok... thanks to you guys, I feel motivated to keep going!
Cyril woke in a sunny room, with his face buried in a blanket, laying the wrong direction in the bed, and with one hand resting on the floor. His shirt was draped over the footboard, his dusty coat lay in the doorway, and his trousers were unbuttoned, which left him rather intimately acquainted with a straw mattress in his waking moments.
A few minutes to compose himself, and he dressed and headed down the stairs, calling her name. “Gretchen!”
But the only answer came from the bloke from the previous night, Dimata. “She’s not here,” he said, sewing up a split seam on a leather boot.
“Bullshit. She came up to my room last night.”
“I hope not, for your sake,” Dimata said, face straight. “Gretchen died two years ago.”
One of the least helpful pieces of advice I received on my writing was to get it right the first time.
.
When Lucyna fell pregnant, she came to Cyril in the jeweler’s shop and told him her father had struck her. She had a red welt on the side of her face, and Cyril let her sleep on the floor of the shed with him that night. By morning, they had a plan. Lucyna wanted to finish out her last four months in the university, and Cyril was going to travel to Brazelton and find them a shop to rent with his saved money. They were going to sell charms.
But they never made it out of Mist. Well, not together.
One of the least helpful pieces of advice I received on my writing was to get it right the first time.