I’m trying to write at least like, 500 words a day. Building a streak, building good habits. And since normally my prompts wind up between 1000-2000 words… hopefully I get some stuff done.
Also, this just went to an angsty place. I tweaked it a tiny bit.
His throat no longer burned (a sure sign he was well and stinking drunk) but, heedless of the state of his sobriety, more of the numbing liquid spilled over the lip of his flask and down his gullet.
It was a still night: no crickets stirred, not a breeze ruffled their garden, their street devoid of cars or dogs.
Theirs, his and hers and Henry’s, no more and never less.
He took another swig of rum.
How about Emma tries to explain birth control, but he misunderstands and thinks Emma is infertile, and he tries to come to terms with the fact that there will be no Swan-Jones children.
Published
It All Starts With a Dance 