Just a short story I wrote for fun the other day as a tribute to one of my favourite things in the world (and I think a lot of you writers out there will agree): sharp pencils. :D Now, the connection between such an ominous title and the mundane wri...
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Sawdust and carving iron.
The sour stench of rotting cabbage wafted over Graphie on the breeze but she kept the ugly orange scarf pressed to her nose. She breathed deeply through the scratchy wool, her stomach settling as the familiar scents of home embraced her.
Leather aprons and calloused hands.
Mild tea and subtle wood smoke.
She ducked out of the marketplace and felt a trickle of cool relief through her chest, mingled with pride at evading the eyes of the ones watching for her. She hadn't felt the numb chill at the base of her neck nor the prickle of panic in her throat that always warned her when she was being pursued. She'd been listening for them though. She'd promised to.
"Back slang it like we've talked, girly," Jazza had told her, accenting her words with the movement of a blade up and down her latest creation. "We don't need no bobby poking around 'ere what with the nature of the late Prince's death. They'll be lookin' out. Mind they don't see you 'tall."
Back slang it, Graphie repeated in her head, you heard the mum. She went over the routes in her head for a third time, keeping careful watch in her mind's eye for the lingering shadows she had to avoid at all costs when taking the back way out of the marketplace. No use trading one brand of unwanted eyes for others.
She paused beneath a sagging wooden eve, still dripping from last night's rainfall, to catch her breath as it turned to vapour before taking off again. As she did, she scanned the streets, taking careful note of the beggar slumped against the sagging walls of the tavern across the street and the few locals who were shuffling along the gutters. No one too threatening-like. She tried not to become too at ease.
As the nearest pedestrians passed far enough away to have already noticed the skinny, blonde-haired fifteen-year-old toting a bundle of food through the less-traveled streets of Nadenth On the River, Graphie tested the waters by taking a few, hesitant steps out onto the open street before licking her lips and tensing to bolt.
As her legs propelled her forward, a hand shot out of the shadows and caught hold of her scarf, pulling it tight around her neck so that her heavy breaths were cut off. The bundle of food dropped to the street and scattered across the cobblestone, rolling into the gutters or into the greedy hands of beggars. Graphie wrestled with the cloth, coughing and choking as she ripped it away from her neck and rolled away, leaving the horrible orange scarf limp in a strong hand.
Graphie thought of nothing but running. She thought and thought and thought, and yet, as she backed away from the hulking figure that stepped forward out of the shadows, she collided with yet another one. It took only one glance around to see that she was hemmed in on all sides.
"I... I ain't got nuffin' o' value," she said, bringing herself up to her full height amongst the assortment of rough types that continued to close in, faces expressionless. "You's already took ma' scarf." The silence gave her voice strength. "An' if you's all want a fight, I'an dish a blinker with the best off'em."
