The freedom of wind rushing through her hair, one last time. If her mind could register the childish longing, buried somewhere deep within, she might have given into it. Instead, she sighed the wish away on a heavy exhale and scanned the street below.
For the uninitiated, pantsing is the term for writing by the seat of your pants with little-to-no planning. Just sitting and letting the words flow, taking you wherever they dictate.
But the title of “Writer” is a mantle that has been worn by mountains, and I falter in their shadow. I cannot compare. I am never sure if I’m more afraid of failure, or success.
There was a bite to the air I hadn’t felt in five years, and it took me several moments to remember what that meant. It finally came to me as I watched another breath form as mist in front of me. Winter?