Friday, February 3, 2017

A Vignette

This is a vignette I wrote this morning after a particularly vivid daydream. It isn't related to my new novel—it is something I simply thought of while not doing my school.

The old man is sitting in his usual spot in the corner of the tavern. He's the kind of man everyone remembers, and the sort of man whose origins no one can recall. He's a fixture in the tavern, just as at home here as the row of ale kegs stacked neatly behind the countertop. 
His face is obscured by a perpetual cloud of smoke, a haze so thick you could simply push it aside. The pipe is dangling from its customary perch in the left corner of the old man's mouth, fitting so snugly into his jawline it seems as though he was born with it there. 
As I draw closer, the smoke fades and I can see his face, every scar and weather-beaten seam thrown into sharp relief by the embers of his pipe.

Well, that's all for today. I may be posting more of these, so just keep a weather eye on your digital horizon!