My brain, it seems, is a damn strange place.
And not to mention a rather crowded one.
It happens on a relatively regular basis — I’ll suddenly find a random snippet of something that I wrote, that I no longer remember writing, and half the time I no longer even remember what it is.
And this happened again recently, unsurprisingly enough.
I’ve sat on the snippet for several days now, in the hopes that something about it would come back to me, but nope. Not a thing. No idea what it is, who the characters are, what the setting is, why on earth this woman is on fire…not a single thing.
Complete mystery, this. And I’m amused.
So I figure I might as well do something with the damn thing, while I continue sitting on it and trying to work out what it is.
The hand then returned to carefully swat at her hair, putting it out without so much as wincing.
‘Calm down, Mister Man,’ she said, and wrinkled her nose as the smoke met her tongue. ‘It’s just my hair.’
‘But — but — you’re on fire!’
‘Thank you. That is a compliment in your vernacular nowadays, is it not?’
‘Not when the woman in question is literally on fire!’
‘I fail to understand why your appear to be far more concerned about this fact than I am, when I am the one who is, as you so kindly pointed out, on fire.’
She finished putting out her hair and gave him an unnerving sort of smile, framed by her now-singed curls. ‘And as you can see, I myself am suffering no particular ill effects, apart from that horrid smell.’