It is my intention to post at least one short piece of original fiction on this site per week, most likely a quick drabble or a timed sprint. The practise never stops being helpful, after all, and it gives me more content to share. I had intended this week’s piece as a fifteen-minute sprint, but after the first two paragraphs, I realized I had something that would only be hurt by further elaboration and settled for tweaking it to one hundred words instead.
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She poured the first swallow onto the packed dust, and the third, and fifth. Odds were only unlucky when they didn’t slight something as patient and vengeful as the earth.
She left a weed in every town she visited – bright red, the stories said, when they caught up to her. Of course, they only called it a weed because it grew where they didn’t want it to. When they brought her the wilted thing, or just their tales of bitter loss, she shrugged, tilted her bottle to the earth again, and told them not to be so greedy next time.
