Six Sentence Sunday
Feb. 24th, 2019 07:14 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
glorious_spoonSix Sentence Sunday is a writing thing where, on Sunday, you post six sentences from an unfinished work. It can be a new fic, a new chapter of a WIP, or even something you’re not sure you’ll ever post.
This is a bit from an original dark fantasy/horror novel that I may or may not ever actually finish–one of those things where I have the backstory and complex character dynamics worked out, but next to no plot. I know there will be zombies at some point, but that's about it.
*
The grass rustled against Jasmine’s bare toes, sending up a dry golden scent every time she kicked at it, long stalks bobbing in the breeze. Still hot, even this time of day with the sun sinking beyond the black hills in the west and casting bloody reflections across the water. The breeze didn’t do much more than dry her skin and set the grass to whispering, a quiet sound that didn’t drown out the thunk of Momma’s shovel hitting the silty riverbed. She was bent over almost out of sight, her white tank top soaked dark with sweat and plastered against the lean, strong line of her back, her braids hanging loose around her face. The red beads on the ends of them clacked together every time she drove the shovel into the mud, another soft sound out of rhythm with the wind in the grass and the low buzzing hum of the flies.
Jasmine’s bones felt achy and sore from the heat, and she wanted to go home.
This is a bit from an original dark fantasy/horror novel that I may or may not ever actually finish–one of those things where I have the backstory and complex character dynamics worked out, but next to no plot. I know there will be zombies at some point, but that's about it.
*
The grass rustled against Jasmine’s bare toes, sending up a dry golden scent every time she kicked at it, long stalks bobbing in the breeze. Still hot, even this time of day with the sun sinking beyond the black hills in the west and casting bloody reflections across the water. The breeze didn’t do much more than dry her skin and set the grass to whispering, a quiet sound that didn’t drown out the thunk of Momma’s shovel hitting the silty riverbed. She was bent over almost out of sight, her white tank top soaked dark with sweat and plastered against the lean, strong line of her back, her braids hanging loose around her face. The red beads on the ends of them clacked together every time she drove the shovel into the mud, another soft sound out of rhythm with the wind in the grass and the low buzzing hum of the flies.
Jasmine’s bones felt achy and sore from the heat, and she wanted to go home.
