Writing in the Shed

It’s a little toasty here (90F or so today), but the fan is blasting me, and I put on my suit, so if I get too hot, I can dunk myself in the pool. I have a story due to my local workshop — overdue, really, since we’re supposed to be critiquing it tomorrow. Getting there. This is the revised opening — what I had before was a little slow, so I’m trying to inject a tiny bit of tension here to kick things off.

Gooseneck loosestrife with native purple poppy mallow beyond.


“Amara woke gasping for breath. For a moment, she was back there, in the tunnels on Missile Night, the air thick with smoke as Dhir’s bomb exploded, blood and flesh spattering across the room, her face, and she could taste it, the metallic salt on her tongue – and oh. That brought her to full wakefulness, that taste. All through her pregnancy, she’d tasted metal on her tongue; almost the same as blood, but not quite. There was no blood here, no smoke. Missile Night was a full year past. She was in her bed, and if she couldn’t breathe, that was probably the baby, pressing on something sie shouldn’t.”

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