By all accounts, Arzel was a mild, industrious, handsome man, loved by all. One that resolutely remained unwed, to the village’s despair.
When the official pushed a wooden box towards her, her heart plummeted. “Is this…” “Yes. My deepest condolences, Miss Keiller.”
It smelled of damp, mulch, and rot, the mud squelching uncomfortably beneath her feet. If Lillias didn’t stop moving, there was a high chance she’d be sucked into the marsh beneath. A giggle trilled the air, lilting, faint, teasing. She tightened her grip on the cloth bundle, and pressed on.
Tea breaks: a moment to unwind, to take a break, and occasionally ramble. This week, one of my favourite games, The Secret World, is sunsetting, and I reflect upon what impact it's had on me as a writer.
He looked at the exercise book. The pages were scarred by Biro marks, words skewered with thick, black strokes. Plus, had she stabbed the paper? It’d justify the multitude of holes poked through the sheets…
She followed the curator through a stone doorway, and looked up. Hanging on the wall was an oil painting, depicting a family of three: a golden-haired cherub, a stern-looking father at the piano, and an elegant woman, clad in finery. The girl’s hand was outstretched, placed on the piano.
The box was a lie. “Piece-of-cake Weaving”, it claimed. Nope.