Previous/First

Ironic that Seran work would keep the road to the Seran country from being built.

He checked the station, just to be sure. Empty; good. No witnesses. Outside of the station, nobody would be around for a good mile or so.

He went back down the rails to the Coudn bridge. It wasn’t the most impressive bridge the Aleksandreïans had built for their railroads, but like all of them it was built at great expense.

And after tonight, it would be no more.

He set up the bomb on one of the bridge’s foundations, unrolled the fuse a comfortable distance, lit it, and took off running downstream.

Most of you have probably heard of NaNoWriMo, a project where one tries to write a 50,000 word novel in the month of November.  I’ve tried it a couple of times; the next Ralph story, which I haven’t posted yet because I don’t think it’ll really make sense until the current one is finished and posted, was my attempt last year.  This year, I managed a whopping 688 words.  I’m posting them as scraps because they’re too disjoint to fit with each other, but I’ll be working on trying to continue the story from here on out.  It is set in Terce, but there are no satyriffic shenanigans, so.

Ainlouk waited outside the rail station at Tars, waiting for everyone to leave as night fell. His hand moved to check the bomb in his pack: still there, ready.

The last train to Aleksandreï churned out of the station, and the slaves and the Aiolan priests who manned the station filed out, heading back to their quarters.

He forced himself to count to a hundred before moving. The street was silent and dark with the lamps extinguished; it was a clear, hot night.

Ainlouk went around the back of the station, walking the rails through the yard where the merchants loaded and unloaded their goods, to the platform where the rich men who rode trains disembarked, and opened up his pack.

The bomb lay wrapped in heavy cloth.