Just Another Struggling Writer

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“Where did she come from?” A voice — this one outside of the woman’s own head for a nice change — asks.

“The South road,” another replies gruffly. “Nothing down that way but the old farmsteads.”

“But those have been abandoned for years,” says the first, a younger person by the woman’s ears, inexperience and a bite of fear underpinning their tone.

The second person, undoubtedly an older gentleman, spits crudely before making his reply. “Not really,” he said. “We hear of squatters holing up there sometimes when the weather is foul.”

“Clear skies today,” the young person points out, perhaps unnecessarily.

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