The cowboy was perched at the foot of my bed.
“Wake up, girl.”
He calls me girl. It’s irritating. If you want me to tell your story, you should at least call me by my proper name.
I kick at his hind end so he’ll get up and leave. “You’re a prompt, you know. A writing exercise. You’re not a book. You’re not even a short story–you’re a paragraph and I’m done with you.”
We both know better. I first met Henry Thomas Colter twenty years ago while I was on my historical fiction kick. I know him, know his story. I know about the woman he left behind in Ohio and the dying man he’s about to find and how he ain’t never gonna make it to Oregon.
But really…what is he thinking? I go from first person teenage hacker to third person Western? Who even writes Westerns?
“You’ll destroy all my credibility,” I say. I’m just kidding. I never had any credibility. C’mon people, I opened with poop.
I blame Gordon for this–and you too, Sharon.
11,000 or so words to go on The Beast.