A while back, Author Chuck Wendig posted a flash fiction challenge to create a character in 250 words or less. This one was mine.
Gnash Liven had a molten and unrelenting hatred in her heart, a wooden spike strapped to her thigh, and a scar, about a quarter-centimeter thick, tracing from the tear duct of her left eye to just below her earlobe. And, occasionally, Jim Nightblade’s balls in her hand.
Gnash also had case of lager in the fridge (those college boys can shove that hoppy bullshit straight up their collective asses), and her legs propped on her desk. Her rage burned on.
It’s a good day to die, she thought, polishing the blade of her silver long-sword. It was a Tuesday after all, and Tuesdays are bullshit, lacking the stones to go full-on Monday and too damned far away from Friday. Nobody hates Tuesday and that’s a problem because it’s just as awful as the rest.
What she didn’t have is one of those sparkly undead bastards at the end of her blade or impaled on her spike. And that was a problem. That was everyone’s problem. That was humanity’s problem.