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They sent me here, into the woods to die, an old woman’s life for an extra portion of rice, ‘For the survival of the village,’ so they say. How easily they discard the past and forget, I hunted these slopes for a lifetime before marriage and children, before war and famine... they imagine me dead already, but my back is strong, my eyes sharp, my mind still quick, or quick enough. I remember my snares, and I still haven’t forgotten where the stream has its source, that fragile thread, lifeline for all men, and all women... let us see who will starve, and who survive.

* A little (very) short fiction, prompted by this week's challenge from Chuck Wendig, to write a story—a real actual story with plot and characterization and setting and rhythm and all the rest—in the space of only 3 sentences. I am in no way sure I accomplished this, but it's the first of these I've ever completed, so I'm happy about that. A draft of a previous attempt at one of Chuck's challenges from some months ago has now metastasized from a < 1000 word flash story into tens of thousands of words of scenes that probably don't even all fit into the same single novel... such is life.
Anyway, hope you like it!