![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aithneI, uh, sort of wrote most of a draft of a short story tonight to the tune of 2300 words. Nothing on Word of the Chosen. And I have zero idea if this story is going to work; I have a suspicion it might be broken.
It's about creepy dolls, and ghosts, and a delivery girl.
Excerpt:
I take the exit off of 90 and head downtown. Bank signs flicker and flash at me. 92, 97, 91. The date’s never visible. It’s just after 1. I hope it’s a weekday.
It is, the post office is open. The Minnesotans in line are patient, and have adorable accents. I mouth words, trying to feel them as I’m hearing them. Warsh. Ennit? P’st awfice. The lady in line ahead of me tells someone that she’ll be home for supper, her head cocked to hold her phone pinned between shoulder and ear.
“Can I help you?”
“I have general delivery to pick up.” What’s my name in Rochester? “For Giselle Hammet.” I pass him a driver’s license with my picture on it.
The genial man behind the counter returns with three big envelopes and two boxes. “Don’t get much general delivery these days. Sign here.”
“My job keeps me on the road.” A smile, just for him and his shiny bald head ringed with white hair like a monk. Pen scribbling. “Besides. I’m an old-fashioned kind of girl.” I collect my mail and leave.
It always feels like cheating, to speak to normal people so.
It's about creepy dolls, and ghosts, and a delivery girl.
Excerpt:
I take the exit off of 90 and head downtown. Bank signs flicker and flash at me. 92, 97, 91. The date’s never visible. It’s just after 1. I hope it’s a weekday.
It is, the post office is open. The Minnesotans in line are patient, and have adorable accents. I mouth words, trying to feel them as I’m hearing them. Warsh. Ennit? P’st awfice. The lady in line ahead of me tells someone that she’ll be home for supper, her head cocked to hold her phone pinned between shoulder and ear.
“Can I help you?”
“I have general delivery to pick up.” What’s my name in Rochester? “For Giselle Hammet.” I pass him a driver’s license with my picture on it.
The genial man behind the counter returns with three big envelopes and two boxes. “Don’t get much general delivery these days. Sign here.”
“My job keeps me on the road.” A smile, just for him and his shiny bald head ringed with white hair like a monk. Pen scribbling. “Besides. I’m an old-fashioned kind of girl.” I collect my mail and leave.
It always feels like cheating, to speak to normal people so.
