Mini NoNoWriMo -- 452 words
I have too much going on in my life to even try the big NaNo this year, but I have a few ideas I'd like to play with, and my pledge of 200 words a day shouldn't be TOO difficult.
Nancy McGill is my own creation. Any recognizable characters appearing subsequently are not owned by me and are not being used to make a profit.
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It's been at least a decade since Nancy McGill has been to Daytona Beach for Bike Week. Her own motorcycle mama days are long past. The rumble of engines prompts a headache more than nostalgia, and she wonders what prompted her to come. Originally, her plans for this particular Saturday in March called for washing linens and hanging them to line-dry in the fresh air. Instead, at a quarter til nine, she'd found herself trekking over to Tallboy's, just in time to catch a ride with him to Daytona. When they'd arrived, she dismissed his attempts to arrange a time and place to meet up---which he'd forget anyway; by three o'clock, he'd be three sheets to the wind---and said she'd find her own way home. Never mind that it was near forty miles; it isn't going to be a problem. She knows it.
Nancy spends a chunk of the afternoon wandering around town, seeing how much has changed since the day she left Prince Not-So-Charming and came to read tarot cards in the city by the sea. The old storefront she moved into when she outgrew her little corner in the Herb Garden is a ladies' boutique now, a window full of trendy outfits where her lace and draperies once hung.
She's waiting; it's a familiar feeling. No telling for what, only that she's meant to be here, today, for some reason that will become plain soon enough.
It's about four when her intuition demands a beer, and she opens the door of the nearest bar as if it's where she meant to go all along. Never mind that it's Bike Week, and she gets whoops and catcalls at her appearance. Nancy learned at twenty not to let that stuff get to her, and she's gotten more tough since then, not less.
She dodges a few unsavory characters on the way to the bar, then she gets a beer, all right. A big, dark-haired guy turns away from the bar just as she gets there, knocking into her, and she winds up soaked, but hardly notices that at first. Because as soon as she comes into contact with him, the jolt of his very solid body and the brief touch of her hands against his shirt, she knows.
This is why she's here. She's just had a head-on collision with her destiny. Never mind that he's scruffy and unshaved, or that his old shirt is spattered with blood (Hell, this is Bike Week, you can hardly go fifty yards without some kind of ruckus breaking out. Half the guys in this bar probably have a DNA souvenir or two.). Although it is kind of interesting that the blood isn't quite human.
Nancy McGill is my own creation. Any recognizable characters appearing subsequently are not owned by me and are not being used to make a profit.
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It's been at least a decade since Nancy McGill has been to Daytona Beach for Bike Week. Her own motorcycle mama days are long past. The rumble of engines prompts a headache more than nostalgia, and she wonders what prompted her to come. Originally, her plans for this particular Saturday in March called for washing linens and hanging them to line-dry in the fresh air. Instead, at a quarter til nine, she'd found herself trekking over to Tallboy's, just in time to catch a ride with him to Daytona. When they'd arrived, she dismissed his attempts to arrange a time and place to meet up---which he'd forget anyway; by three o'clock, he'd be three sheets to the wind---and said she'd find her own way home. Never mind that it was near forty miles; it isn't going to be a problem. She knows it.
Nancy spends a chunk of the afternoon wandering around town, seeing how much has changed since the day she left Prince Not-So-Charming and came to read tarot cards in the city by the sea. The old storefront she moved into when she outgrew her little corner in the Herb Garden is a ladies' boutique now, a window full of trendy outfits where her lace and draperies once hung.
She's waiting; it's a familiar feeling. No telling for what, only that she's meant to be here, today, for some reason that will become plain soon enough.
It's about four when her intuition demands a beer, and she opens the door of the nearest bar as if it's where she meant to go all along. Never mind that it's Bike Week, and she gets whoops and catcalls at her appearance. Nancy learned at twenty not to let that stuff get to her, and she's gotten more tough since then, not less.
She dodges a few unsavory characters on the way to the bar, then she gets a beer, all right. A big, dark-haired guy turns away from the bar just as she gets there, knocking into her, and she winds up soaked, but hardly notices that at first. Because as soon as she comes into contact with him, the jolt of his very solid body and the brief touch of her hands against his shirt, she knows.
This is why she's here. She's just had a head-on collision with her destiny. Never mind that he's scruffy and unshaved, or that his old shirt is spattered with blood (Hell, this is Bike Week, you can hardly go fifty yards without some kind of ruckus breaking out. Half the guys in this bar probably have a DNA souvenir or two.). Although it is kind of interesting that the blood isn't quite human.