Part II
Some details of these story ideas are flexible, but the setting/general gist of what is laid out is more or less what I'd like to write.
* suitable for a one-shot
| The Price of Dishonor (I Own You)* | Hist / Alt Hist | dub-con, BDSM, romance |
a young woman will do almost anything to convince the magistrate to commute her brother's sentence
Eleanor Waller is twenty-four years old, a widow of eighteen months, and she had served as her younger brother, Patrick Grant's mother figure since her own mother had died when a winter cold took to her lungs and settled when she was fourteen, and Patrick only seven. The loss of her mother had hit her hard, and she had made up for it as much as she could by mothering, and indulging, Patrick. When their father looked to punish him for any indiscretion, Eleanor was there to intercede. When her husband was called to duty, Patrick came to stay with her much of the time, and when the news came that he had been killed, Patrick had been there to console her.
However, as much as she loved her brother, her brother perhaps did not return her affections quite so much as she believed. He grew up wild, rebellious, and given to mischief. Had her father the will to ignore Eleanor's pleading and excuses, perhaps he might have fared better, but whether Patrick's behavior was that of a thoughtless young lad who would, in time, grow more serious-minded, or whether he was a 'bad seed' destined to come to a bad end was a moot point. At eighteen, he killed a young man, a rival, in a duel where he had offered challenge. Whether his nerve failed, or he simply had no care for honor when his own life was at stake, he turned and fired before the count had been completed, turning a point of honor to murder.
Eleanor was a comely woman, with gentle but not ungenerous curves. Her skin was fine and clear, her eyes green and clear, possessing of long eyelashes that rested noticeably upon her cheeks when eyes were closed, and emphasized the pleasing shape of her face when open. She had married at a suitable age, to a suitable young man who had both her father's and young Patrick's approval, and their marriage had been, if not joyous, at least happy. Her voice was well-modulated, and she spoke not stridently, and save for those times when she stepped up to fight for her brother's welfare, she was judged a well-mannered young woman, if stubborn and perhaps a bit keener upon books and the reading of newspapers, discussion of current events than was seemly.
Still, had it not been for her brother's latest escapade, she surely would have not remained a widow long, being still of marriageable age and her regrettable lack of bearing her husband children excused by the demands of his duties.
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Eleanor had sat through the proceedings as silently as she had been able. Her brother's defender had cautioned her against an unseemly display, though it had hardly been needed. She must be the voice of compassionate reason, not a woman who could not put her own emotions aside and weigh the facts. That those in the courtroom, save perhaps the judge and the hard-eyed man dressed in a style that marked him a Tory, did feel sympathy for her, and she had done her best to utilize it in her brother's favor.
She had no pride where his life was concerned. Let them weep for her, lean one toward the other and whisper of the heavy hand of fate that had fallen on her, first losing her mother so young, then taking on the responsibilities of a mother to her brother, a housekeeper for her father, and then losing her husband so shortly after she was wed. Let them see her sitting with her back ramrod straight upon the uncomfortable wooden bench, her Bible clutched in one hand and her kerchiefs in the other, wiping away tears.
Of course she mourned for Alphonse Whittier, and his family. Her heart went out to the poor woman who was in as sorry a shape as she, and who had been carried from the courtroom when she had fainted at the testimony given regarding the duel. Yet sentencing Patrick to the hangman, the headsman's axe, would that bring Alphonse back?
She had looked them in the eyes, each and every one, and begged them to see that more pain would not repay the life. Prison, if they must, the horror of exile, so long as he lived and there was hope. She had been allowed to speak, to shoulder the blame for not teaching Patrick properly, for indulging him because of her own sorrow, and her father's absence, she felt, only bolstered the fact that Patrick was not fully to blame. Surely, they could see that. Rosary in hand, she prayed, her lips moving silently as she begged the Good Lord to lead the magistrate to mercy.
~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.
The lawyer had cautioned her that she should not allow herself to hope too strongly, after the magistrate had postponed the verdict until the next day. She had spent time with Patrick, consoling him, reading to him from Gulliver's Travels, until the jailor had insisted she leave. She had gone home, to her too quiet, too empty house full of memories, and all she could see were the faceless shadows of the people she had failed.
Her guilt, rather than her hope, had led her here. For what, she did not know, but something in his manner, something in the way he had looked at her ...
Eleanor held her breath, knocked one, two, three times, quickly, before she lost her nerve. This was improper, she knew, in more ways than one, and yet ... could she live if she did not at least try?
It was the judge's voice she heard through the thick polished wood. At another time, she might have given thought to the weighty matters that had been debated in silence, or in voice, behind those doors. She might have thought better of her actions, considered that it might do more harm than good, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
Without thinking, she reached for the handle, and it turned in her gloved hand. She could see the glimmer of lamplight, scent the smell of tobacco within, and even see the judge's form in a large backed chair, the shadow of leg and shoe as he sat cross-legged, attired as a man rather than an officer of the court. That, somehow, gave her courage to enter quickly and close the door behind her.
"Magistrate? I am sorry to interrupt without regard to courtesy owed, but please ... I beg you ... may we speak for just a moment?"
Her voice trembled, just a bit, but for the most part it held steady. She had neatened her appearance, changed her clothing to something just a bit brighter than widows weeds, a dress had brought the light in men's eyes before. It was slightly musty from its time in her closet, but the verbena water she had sprinkled on it would hide that, aided by the smoke from his pipe.
She did not smile -- no, that would be too much, but she sank down into a low curtsy and held it, head bowed, so that he would get the full impact of her eyes when her head lifted ... if he were looking.
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| The Lady Luck Saloon | Old West | vanilla, prostitution, romance, violence |
a feisty woman, a saloon in the Old West, trouble walking through the swinging doors
When she'd come west on the train, Sarah Louise Whittcomb hadn't had much of a plan at all. In fact, all she'd thought about was getting far, far away from everyone who'd ever known her, the tight collar of her traveling dress carrying with it the nightmare of the hangman's noose. It had been on the train that she'd taken the name 'Angela', and chopped off the biggest part of her surname, courtesy of the man seated beside her who had flirtatiously remarked that she looked like an angel, waking from an uneasy sleep on the rocking seat to realize that she'd used his shoulder as a pillow.
A whole lot of luck, good for her, and bad for a couple of others, had landed her in Black Jack, a town that had been established mainly on the plans for a new railway that would bring cattle from Texas and the surround environs northward for butchering. Unfortunately, with the War of Northern Aggression, the War of Southern Rebellion, or the War Between the States (take your pick as to what you called it) and the news that Texas cattle were like to be infested with ticks carrying herd-debilitatng disease had put those plans on hold, leaving the town caught in a kind of limbo.
A lot of men lost fortunes on their speculations, but it was ripe time for a woman with a goodly sum of questionably-obtained funds, equally questionably-obtained six shooters and a trusty shotgun, and a bellyful of tired of being pushed around to buy up the town's hotel/saloon and run it herself. The first thing she did was put the local cat-house out of business, but not in a way that endeared her to the god-fearing sin-calling, tea-totaling population. Mostly, she did it by offering the brothel's best girls a better deal, and by recruiting a couple from places both east, west and beyond. The girls all helped out to serve drinks, and when a group of cattlemen, outlaws, banditos, businessmen or what-have-you filled up the hotel, then the regular serving girls were free to make a few extra coin lifting their skirts if they wanted, and some did. Some didn't, but that was okay too.
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Angela Whit, as she was known in town, had a set of rules that she enforced with her rifle, a fireplace poker with a wicked sharp hook, or a little lady's gun that she wore on a little holster on her thigh instead of the now-tucked-away six-shooters. The rules were simple - wipe your feet before you come in, pay your tab, take the fights outside, and stick your dick in any hole the girl you paid was willing but no other, and keep your goddamn fists off the girls. Story was that one asshole come up from Texarcana who punched one of Angie's girls left cupping the bleeding, ragged remains of what had been his cattle prod courtesy of Miss Angie's little bitty gun. The story had grown to local legend in the telling. Whatever the truth, the one thing that the folks around Black Jack knew for certain is that the town's Sheriff always came down on Angie's side when there was trouble, and if she'd seen the inside of the town's jail, it wasn't as an official guest.  It was about as uneasy a peace over the Lady Luck Saloon as it was about those who supported the Union and them that supported the Rebs, but it was a peace all the same.  It generally didn't take long when the Lady Luck opened for business for people to start filtering in, whether to get themselves a drink, a girl, or just a place to play cards or checkers out of the chill Autumn wind. Angela, dressed in her preferred garb of a low off the shoulder top and skirt split up high to keep her little gun accessible, was enjoying a cup of coffee at 'her' table, and lazily laying out a game of Sol as she kept her ears open for any bit of gossip or news that was of interest. While there was some truth in the whisper of 'whore' that the town Bible-thumpers hissed in her direction, she didn't lead anyone up the stairs to her private room 'less she wanted to (though she was honest enough to admit that a little present was as good as foreplay for gettin' her in the mood to those brave enough to endure a little straight talk that wasn't precisely ladylike). That didn't mean, though, that she didn't take some sort of delight in findin' out a bit of dirt to dish right back, and a saloon was a good place for that. Funny that the truth seemed to hurt more than any lie ever could, and it was often Angie's favorite weapon. Come sundown, she reckoned that they'd have a decent crowd, enough to make the expense of the Mex troubadour .... as he called himself ... worth it in what the house'd draw in. |
| Chains That Bind | Hist / Alt Hist/Voodoo | BDSM, dub-con, NC, racial, romance, slavery |
a young octoroon woman seeks to become a plaçée of a wealthy landowner in 1830's Louisiana
It is the Autumn of 1833, in New Orleans. Bronze Jack, yellow fever, had swept through the city during the summer, and many died. Wealthy landowners had left the city, seeking cooler, healthier climes away from the heat and the scent of death, but at last the air has cooled, and the fever has run its course, leaving with as little ceremony as it came.
Musette is eighteen years old, the daughter of Dominique Lalaurie, a quadroon plaçée, and though her skin is fair, her ancestor was a slave, and her place in society was determined not by appearance but by social convention. To the white slave traders, if she was found without the papers that proved her a free woman, she was property to be bought and sold. To the wealthy, she was something else - a symbol of wealth, a mistress to be privately displayed and enjoyed like one might possess a rare painting or book.
Had she been plain, her future would have been bleak - a bare existence, perhaps, of domestic servitude, dodging the slavers and perhaps finding some sort of security in marriage with another freeman.
Musette, however, was not plain, and her coloring chained her to a future as surely as the loss of papers. Her skin was fair, and side by side to the wealthy wives and daughters of the elite, there was little to suggest she could not move among them - but to get caught in such a masquerade meant punishment worse than death.
There was but one path for Musette - to become, like her aunt, a plaçée - the mistress of a wealthy man, who would provide a house, gifts, and an income ... in return for all the pleasures, and the status, that keeping such a woman could give. Displease the man who provided her existence, and Musette - educated, mannered, and unused to manual labor - could well find herself locked into a dismal future - the most likely, prostituted in much less gentile a manner.
Looking for someone interested in exploring an odd relationship - not master and slave, but a more subtle kind of mastery whose control is no less for being wrapped in a gentile package. Aside from the sexual and/or romantic portion of the story, there is plenty of room for plot.
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Some suggestions: - Political intrigue - possibly involving an assassination attempt on a French diplomat. Relations were somewhat tense as President Andrew Jackson was soon to demand repayment for the destruction of property in the Napoleonic wars, causing France to sever diplomatic ties in 1834.
- Voodoo - Musette's mother is a follower of Marie Laveau, and the Voodooeine has plans for the land owned by the man who purchases Musette's contract, possibly involving a feud with a rival practitioner.
- Vampires - If you've ever read 'Interview with the Vampire', you can likely see some of the possibilities.
- Family Quarrels - There's a dispute over the plantation deed, and the cousins are willing to do anything to make sure they get what's coming to them.
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| The Gangster's Moll | Hist / Alt Hist / Prohibition | love, lust, betrayal, romance |
getting out from under a gangster's thumb means finding somebody to help take him out
Patrice Riley never had a choice. When Johnny Poniske, aka 'The Banker' came to collect on her father's debt, he decided to take her in lieu of some of the interest. He also had his his mug break some of her father's teeth and a couple of ribs, just so that everybody knew where they stood and didn't have any ideas that he was getting soft.
That was fifteen years ago, and Patrice has been with Johnny ever since. She's not his only girl, not by a long shot, but she's his constant, his confidant. She's made herself useful in a few tight spots, steered him in the right direction and proven more than once that she understands the angles in the world he lives in. He provides a swell apartment for her, and an allowance that keeps her looking like he likes her to look. It's a life, and in some ways it's better than she would've likely had.
The problem is that she doesn't like Johnny, and never has. She's never pretended to like him, and maybe that's part of the fascination. Despite his sophisticated airs, Johnny didn't come from any better place than Patrice did. He just likes to put on a show. He keeps tabs on Patrice, but that has waned somewhat during the years. What hasn't changed is that Johnny doesn't let anyone walk out on him, and he also doesn't let anyone take what's his, either. And, until he says different, Patrice is his.
What she does like and want ... she doesn't really know. She can't see much sense in dreaming, and she does what she can both to prepare for the future and make sure that she comes out as close to the top as she can. If she ever has the chance to get out from Johnny's thumb, so long as it doesn't involve shoving her back down into the world of living hand to mouth, she's probably going to weigh the odds, long and hard, against taking it.
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I'm looking for someone to join up with Patrice to take Johnny down. There are a lot of ways this could go, from a darker tale of treachery and vengeance to a more romantic tale, with a handsome stand up guy who wants to rescue Patrice from the clutches of a ruthless gangster. Patrice herself is in her early 30's, tough, smart, and a bit jaded ... but with a softer side if someone breaks through that shell. Some potential images to represent Patrice:    |
| Swindled | Hist / Alt Hist / Old West | dub-con, revenge, violence, romance |
debt collection in the Old West
Emilie Hulet was the eldest daughter of a French military attaché who spent a number of years in Washington and the surrounding areas, particularly in the Southern United States. Emilie, along with her two younger sisters, spent many of their formative years either waiting on his return or traveling with him while he attended to businesses and parties. Older than her siblings by several years, she entered her rebellious teen years without much in the way of guidance and supervision, and it was not long until she had learned how to run rings around the 'stand-ins' her father employed to look after and teach his girls. Though not particularly 'bad', Emilie was quite good in getting herself in questionable situations and making socially compromising decisions.
Her father, once persuaded that his eldest daughter's actions were having an adverse affect on the younger girls, started looking around for a nice young man to take her off his hands, either from a reputable family in the States or back in France. Given the girl's lack of judgement and her father's less than stellar prospects, given that he was somewhat of a roue himself, it was not as easy as he had hoped. Emilie was a very pretty girl, but she had developed a reputation for being both headstrong and too familiar and friendly with the wrong kind of people, particularly men. However, a suitable match was arranged and she was to be sent back to France to her father's relatives to be handed over to her new husband.
She was outraged, and determined not to return to a place that she barely remembered to spend the rest of her life with a bunch of snooty Frenchmen who would look down on her for her upbringing and her independence. Instead, she ran off with a charming rogue much like her father, a former soldier and gambler whose promises were always in the future and whose present ran the gamut of rags to riches on the turn of the card, the roll of the dice, or the nose of a horse. Emilie learned to play whatever part was required, from wife to sister to cousin, and truth be told she reveled in the game almost as much as her beau did -- though the romance aspect quickly palled. She had an ear for accents, and could change hers to suit the purpose, though she preferred the French of her youth or the liquid drawl of Southern society, and she held tight to the jewels, gifts, and gowns that the charming rogue gave her in the good times. They were her props, her hooks, and they allowed her to play in the exciting games as they traveled from place to place, often leaving just ahead of trouble.
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Despite her disappointment in her 'partner', life was good ... until they booked passage on a Mississippi Riverboat, and her lover made a bet he couldn't cover. Rather than pay it, he jumped ship ... taking with him Emilie's jewels, her security, and leaving her facing the man he owed a considerable amount of money to ... along with the damnable marker 'handing' Emilie over to cover part of his debt.
The one thing they could agree on is that hunting down that rat and getting back what was owed to them both was top priority ... everything else, including who got the honor of slicing off her former lover's cojones, was up for negotiation.
Looking for someone to play the gambler that 'won' Emilie, as well as the money that her former lover slipped away with. |
| A Hint of Scandal | Hist / Alt Hist / Supernatural | vanilla, romance, dub-con, NC |
a scandal in her past, an arranged marriage & possibly a haunted house with greedy spirits
Lydia Barrons was born and raised just outside of Charleston, South Carolina. Her ancestors imigrated to America from Italy and England, and had attained both wealth and status in banking and imports by the time her grandfather married, late in life, and by the time Lydia was introduced to Charleston society in her debut party, had achieved comfortable and respectable status. Of course, it was rumored that they held some abolitionist tendencies and Lydia's mother Annalise claimed to be a Transcendentalist, but aside for the odd discussion or two most of their neighbors were willing to forgive them these eccentricities so long as they did not stray too far from conventional wisdom and maintained their wealth.
Lydia, like most young girls, did not worry too much about such things. She enjoyed the parties for their gaiety, and the company of other girls her age, and, of course, the charming men and music and dancing. Even so, she had been influenced more than she realized by her mother's interest in the Transcendalist movement, and had read the works of Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry David Thoreau, and even Edgar Allan Poe. For the most part, she did not discuss these peculiarities with her friends, but eventually she found herself in the company of Phillipe Russo, a wealthy young man who had come to the United States both to see the world and check into certain business matters for his family.
It was not long before the gentleman, with his sophisticated airs of mystery, had captured Lydia's imagination and 'heart'. Her family attempted to intervene, to forbid her to see him, but that only made rebellion flare hotter. In due course, things progressed as such things usually do. When it was discovered, Lydia revealed that she was with child - a foolish and desperate act, made with as much fear as truth, in the hopes that he would do do the honorable thing and that her parents would support her.
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It did not happen that way. Phillipe, whose fiance awaited him back in Florence, quickly found family business calling him away - the burned bridges of little moment. Lydia was given the option of being sent abroad to hide her shame, or accepting whatever marriage her family could arrange quickly, with a respectable man who was willing to forgive her mistakes in return for whatever consideration seemed appropriate.
Lydia chose the second option. However, by the time the marriage was arranged, Lydia fell ill, and if there was a child conceived in her trysts with her exotic beau, it was taken from her in her feverish dreams. Even so, her family insisted that the agreement with her husband to be be honored, and at least it was a better alternative than staying in Charleston where the memory of her foolishness to have given herself to a lying scoundrel did not haunt her in every movement and conversation. And in the period of her recovery, she had had much time to read and to think ...
Before her illness, Lydia had been flighty and and prone to selfishness. After Phillipe walked away with an 'It's for the best for everyone, you'll see' and her illness, she has become more introspective and less inclined to seek out the society of other people. The love of books and reading that she had had as a child has returned. She is still, however, more than a little stubborn.
This was first tried as a ghost story, with Lydia and her new husband moving into a haunted house. The ghost story element, and the location, are negotiable, but I love the character of Lydia and the basic idea. |
| Skeletons & Closets | Modern / Hist / Supernatural | vanilla, romance |
a scorned woman, an ex with secrets & a caretaker who has made his peace with a house's ghosts
When Vivian Blake was hired right out of college for the Washington Monthly, she had been ecstatic. Print had started its decline, but in some respects, DC was an old fashioned town. Those who made their living off politics in one way or another might take advantage of technology, but they still liked the feel of paper in their hands.
Vivian suspected it was because it allowed them more control, or at least the illusion of it.
One of her first assignments was an interview with Jude Hamilton, who was an up-and-comer on the scene, an assistant to a senator who was so deeply entrenched in the political scheme of things that the opposing party didn't even invest in more than a token opposition to his elections. He'd been great to interview, personable, handsome, exciting ... and when she'd stood and shaken his hand, a good half-hour later than the interview had been scheduled to run, he'd held her hand and gazed into her eyes and asked her to have a drink with him later that evening ...
She'd floated out of his office, and the piece she'd written had been been published almost without editing. For almost a year, she'd been golden. She went everywhere with Jude, parties, rallies, intimate dinners, any time he needed a pretty woman on his arm. They'd become lovers immediately, and Vivian had assumed that things would follow at least an approximation of 'every little girl's dream'.
A year later, she was yesterday's news. Jude Hamilton was engaged to a Boston socialite with money, credentials that went back to the Mayflower, and Vivian was left nursing a broken heart. Some whispered that it was closer to the truth that what she was nursing was an ego that had been thoroughly sandpapered. Whatever the case might have been, it had hurt and oozed and festered like hell, and a broken heart might have healed both faster and cleaner than whatever had been damaged.
It was her ego that led her to write another piece on Jude Hamilton, and his new wife. It was, admittedly a hack job, and Washington Monthly not only refused to publish it, but handed out a stern warning. Vivian didn't listen, and when she didn't drop the matter, she was politely 'let go' ... downsizing.
A few months of being a virtual pariah in circles where she was once welcome, and she'd learned her lesson. Her resentment at Jude Hamilton and Kathleen Hamilton-Tivey was put on the back burner, though not forgotten. She'd learned that women scorned were also women pitied, and while their amusement value might grant them a little indulgence, it was a very short indulgence.
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Living in DC is expensive, and there was no give-up at all in Vivian's personality. When she got a chance to interview with a feminist publication 'Velvet', she was hired, and when her next piece was published, the tone and focus of her writing had changed. Eventually, she expanded her repertoire to include semi-fictional pieces that took past rumors, past scandals and published them with enough facts changed to make lawsuits unsuccessful and enough truth to garner attention and publicity. Over a decade later, and Vivian had never quite forgotten how thoroughly she'd been made a fool of ... and now, a family argument had given her the perfect chance to get a little payback. Foolish, perhaps, but it was a temptation that she had no intention of resisting.
Kathleen Hamilton-Tivey -- Just call me 'Kathy' -- actually wasn't a bad sort at all. Time and perspective healed all wounds, or so Viv thought as she drove along the road that was rapidly becoming more snow than asphalt. Even with the inclement weather, she was singing softly to herself along with the radio turned down to a barely perceptible volume. With the snow, she needed to concentrate, but her mood was too good, almost jubilant ... not a good time for her to be driving in bad weather, but she wasn't going to let a little thing like a snowstorm, hell, a blizzard, stop her. Not now. The years had left their marks on Kathy, or perhaps it was her marriage to Jude that had deepened the crows feet, added the lines of discontent to her mouth and her forehead. She'd had work done, but it hadn't been enough to offset the bitterness, and unhappiness. At first, Vivian had enjoyed the favorable comparisons - to her, it was more proof that good peasant stock could outdo a blue blood pedigree any day. She might be a mutt, but she looked a good decade younger than her one time rival. Then, as she had talked, some of the cattiness retreated, and by the third drink and an hour into the litany of what living with Jude Hamilton had been like, they were confabulating like sisters from another mister. Being wronged by the same man was, it seemed, a good unifier. Ms. Hamilton-Tivey, it seemed, had decided to file for divorce and make sure that darling Jude left the marriage with no more than he'd had when he came into it, and if his wife's lawyer was good enough, considerably less. It was that goal that had prompted Kathy to contact the woman she'd edged out ... and make her an offer she couldn't refuse. There were skeletons in good old Jude's closet, and Kathy was offering the key to the closet door and a shovel to dig them out. A few negotiations, and another drink to seal the deal, and they were partners. Viv could dig all she wanted, and Kathy would give her access to everything she had -- the only condition was that whatever Vivian wrote, she would slant it in Kathy's favor. It was, of course, phrased more diplomatically, but that's what it came down to, and Viv didn't even bother wasting time protesting journalistic ethics. A shake, and a couple of days later, Vivian had keys, a contract, and permission to delve into the secrets Jude had hidden away ... secrets that had to do with the time he had spent in his family's summer home in Quogue. It hadn't taken too long for Viv to clear her calendar. An exposé for Velvet, and perhaps even a book for her, and finally, a little well-deserved payback. The weather, the drive, had been a bitch, but a little snow wasn't going to stop her. She was a bloodhound on the trail, tracking that scent of sweet revenge, and even as the windshield wipers started clogging up with blue-stained white flakes, she didn't even bother easing up on the gas pedal of her rental, but just turned up the wiper speed, increased the defroster fan to the max, and plowed on. The car went down a little dip just as Viv lifted her styrofoam cup of cappuccino, purchased when she'd had to fill the tank back several miles, and she cursed as the car hit the bottom with a little bounce, sloshing the dark, sticky liquid out the hole in the lid and onto her sweater. Her attention was diverted as she put the cup back in the holder, swiping at the droplets ... never a tissue handy when you really needed one ... with her fingers and mostly succeeding at smearing it ... good thing her sweater was brown. Her peripheral vision picked up something looming in front of the car as the climb from the dip leveled off -- an unmistakable shape of figures, one regular size and one smaller, bundled against the storm. Vivian's eyes widened in alarm, and she did probably the very worst combination of things she could do. The cup crushed in her hand, sending hot chocolate over her thumb and wrist before she dropped it to grab at the wheel. The cup rolled, tipped, hit her thigh. The lid came off, dumping the contents onto her pants, sending a sear of pain jabbing up into her as it soaked through the fabric to the sensitive skin of her thighs, and onto the seat. At the same time, her foot slammed down on the brakes, hard, and her hands jerked the wheel to the left. With the slick snow on the road, she could feel the heavy vehicle rise in that stomach-lurching way that indicated the wheels no longer had traction. As she lost control, there was just enough time for her to feel a lightning-bolt of relief as the front fender just missed the dumb-asses who'd wandered out into the middle of the road in a fucking snow storm .... and then the shape was gone, and Viv fought to straighten the spin as the seatbelt cut into her while gravity fought with her seatbelt, the blare of the horn sounding over the slushy scrape of gravel and the radio's soft harmonies of the Red Hot Chili Peppers singing 'Snow (Hey Oh)' in some cosmic joke. The vehicled as the wheels went into the ditch, and the engine died, the overhead light coming on to reveal Vivian's shocked face starkly, and making her jump painfully yet again as her reflection showed in the windshield for a moment.
"GOD DAMN IT!" she screeched, even as her fingers clawed at the seat-belt release, and then reached toward the door handle, the odd angle combining to almost send her sprawling in to the half-frozen run-off. Instead, her booted foot skidded a bit on the ice, then plunged into slushy mud as she steadied herself and then ran/slogged up the slight bank. "Are you all right?!!" she yelled, her head turning frantically right and then left back the way she had come, torn between anger and a terrible fear that gradually morphed into confusion as her eyes beheld ... falling snow, and nothing at all in the road except for where her skid had displaced the accumulated blanket. There were no people, no terrified pedestrians to shake their fists and scream at her for driving recklessly, no sprawled figures on the surface of the road, and she could see even no footprints to suggest that anything had been there at all as she made her way back down to where the skid had begun.
"What the hell??!" she questioned, her voice almost meek in the falling snow, helplessly looking around as her mind sought some explanation ... and then it occurred to her that it would be one hell of an irony if she stood there gaping until somebody else came along and SHE was the reason another driver would be slamming on their brakes. She gave the area one last look, and then headed back to the vehicle, shaking her head in a mixture of relief, disbelief, and irritation at her own self. It was really no surprise when, back in the car, her pants wet and sticky, her boots wet and muddy, and thoroughly off her game, the car's lights flickered as she pushed the 'Start' button, but the engine didn't turn over. The Onstar thing that was supposed to bring help when there was an accident didn't come on on its own, and there was no concerned voice asking if she was okay, not even when she jabbed at the manual activation button. "Fuck. I'm demanding for a refund," she grumbled, then laughed a little at herself, though she was dead serious. She'd paid extra for the protection, and a fat lot of good it did her. Cell phone was next, but dialing 911 didn't do diddly, and neither did anything else. The place where the signal bar usually was ... was blank. Completely fucking blank. Of course it was. Vivian's palms slapped into the steering wheel in frustration. Well, she had two choices. She could sit there and wait until someone else came along, or she could haul her ass back out of the car, grab her overnight bag, and hike on down the road until she came to the house. It should only be another mile or so. *.*.*.* And so it was that Vivian arrived on the doorstep, her overnight bag slammed down onto the porch. She banged on the door with a numb, sticky fist and yelled out 'Hello' and then banged again. After a minute or so with no answer or sign of activity, she fumbled into her slouch-bag for the keys that Kathy had given her. For the first time since the near accident, things went her way, and the keys were right there in easy reach instead of having crawled and burrowed down into the bag's bottom, so she let herself in ... just as the flashlight she'd gotten from the car's glove compartment flickered out. That was the last straw. She cursed again and dropped her bag, purse, flashlight and all to the polished wood floors while she felt along the wall for a light switch. The crash, thump and thud of her things hitting the floor didn't bother her -- apparently the caretaker Kathy had mentioned either had taken the night off or hadn't expected her and she was in no mood to be timid. She wanted lights, warmth, a bath and a change of clothes ... and then to get started on what had brought her all this way. The reason for her accident, what she had seen, was dismissed as a trick of the lights on the snow. |
