I am writing,
and writing…


The man beneath her was dead.
His eyes stared upwards past her shoulder, sightless, sad, the vividness of their blue already fading. For a while his blood had seeped from his wounded chest into her tunic, but that had slowed, then stopped. She did not know his name, although she knew him by sight. He’d been a guard at Breccia Hall. Younger than she was. Eighteen, twenty? Too young to die.



Writing — 7 Comments

  1. Hi Glenda…first time poster. Love your work and am glad you are on a writing roll! Very much looking forward to reading your next trilogy…especially after that little extract!

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.