I decided to do something new: write a short vignette about the image below, similar in style to Erin Morgenstern’s flax-golden tales (I love them!). The difference? The shorter vignette fits into a larger story, which I will continue to write until the characters tell me I’m done.
Feedback always appreciated.
Winter is coming. Father laughs when I say it. I don’t know why, and when I ask he only says, “You know nothing.”
He laughs again and takes another swig from the flask he found. We continue to wander through the asylum, a broken place frozen in time. It looks like it has been abandoned for a long time, and the air feels old and dead. We gather what we can to stay warm, wrapping ourselves in ancient blankets and setting fire to fallen-apart furniture. We’ve made camp in what appears to be someone’s office.
“What’s in the flask?” I ask. Maybe I will get a real answer this time.
“Not really sure,” Father says with a chuckle. “Some kind of liquor. I never really liked it that much. I always preferred beer or wine. This stuff was liquid courage; you could do or say anything. Good in some cases, but bad in most.”
“Like when you met Mom?”
He nods, brushing pale graying hair from his brown eyes. He looks more unkempt than in the settlements.
Maybe it’s the liquor.