…[Griselda] wasn’t going to look that gift horse in the mouth.
Nor the motorcycle, carefully rebuilt by her father from scraps and parts of several others. It might not quite be a gift horse, but she wouldn’t have to feed it (ever. Her father had a way with the magic that created things like fuel and ran things like machines).
“Be careful.” Griselda’s mother kissed her on the cheek. “And mindful of what you’re going to kill.”
“Be firm.” Her father kissed her other cheek. “And when you attack, be certain of every strike.”
There were other things…
This is a small fragment of today’s 10 minutes of writing on it.
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