Running, tourists, and a short excerpt of my story

I went for an actual run today - only 20 minutes, but that's more than I've felt up to for days. I must be getting better... I met a bunch of Spanish tourists on the way back who were lost and looking for the train station. They thought I was German, so imagine their surprise when I gave them directions in more or less coherent Spanish. I was heading roughly that way, so thought I'd show them where they ought to go anyway - they were nice people, and called me guapa a lot. Given that I was a sweaty mess, I think they probably have low standards, but I'll take compliments where they lie, I'm easy like that.

When I got home, I found out there are no trains today because of the bad weather. Oops. It's the thought that counts, right?

Since whenever I sit at home trying to edit, I get distracted by shiny internet, I'm going to take our mini computer (Paul's, really, but I've adopted it because it's teeny and cute) to the cafe by the beach and work without distraction there. Maybe a change of scenery will help inspire me.

I'm going to try putting the first couple of hundred words of my story in a spoiler box, below, so that those of you who aren't interested can skip over it and those of you who've been hassling me to let you read it can see whether you're really interested after all. Assuming the spoiler box works...

Spoiler:

I'd had the best of intentions. This hadn't helped much at the trial.

I had been kneeling in the dust since dawn. My throat was parched and sweat trickled down my back and between my breasts. My arms were lashed in front of me to a short stake. That would hold me up, after the firing squad. I liked to think they would regret it afterwards – I knew them, after all – but they would shoot anyway. The Ducal Guard were trained well.

My hair tickled my face. I wasn't used to it being this long, but a few months in prison had seen it grow and no one was keen to show kindness to a traitor. The Duke held grudges.

The door to the palace opened and the Commander of the Guard stormed out. Her face taut with anger, Krystal stalked across the square towards me. Tall, slim, in her early forties, Krystal was a gifted soldier and an excellent Commander. The Guard lived for her approval, and were terrified of her temper, both with good reason. She and I had been lovers, once and experience suggested that whatever she was about to say to me, I wasn't going to like it. When you're about to face a firing squad, there's almost no good news.