100 Words: Good Advice

Hands on pavement. Cheek on frozen winter grass.

“What?” She pushed herself up, and felt her jacket creak from being too cold. Pennies, poppies, bright red behind the eyes and on the back of the tongue. “Oh.”

She rolled over, huffing quietly, watching her breath plume into the grey morning, and looked around. “Couldn’t have been out long. Not dead of hypothermia.”

Navy eyes tried to focus on the rest of the world; she clawed her way to her feet and shook off the cobwebs that tried to keep hold.

“Okay,” she breathed. “Right. Well. Best not do that again.”

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About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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