I’m not much in the writing mood today as I am in the reviewing mood. So, I started to dig around in some old Drive folders to see what I had sitting there, moldering and forgotten. From the same time period as Dust, just posted a bit ago today, I found this piece in the same folder.
I thought it might do something positive for my image if I posted a short bit of fiction that wasn’t all monsters, blood, brains and guts — so you are stuck with this rubbish from 2006.
I was playing around with writing romance fiction at the time, especially teenage romance back before I decided I preferred to be all sweary and rough around the edges with my writing. I don’t think I was ever very good at it (“And your regular ‘fiction’ is different, how?”), but it’s proof that I at least am able to write something other than about werewolves and killers, soldiers and swords, monsters and mayhem when I write this thing I have erroneously described as “fiction”. (“That’s news, chummer. Looks like the same drivel as always.”)
Very minor inspiration from The Glove’s song of the same name. More inspired by autobiographical elements that have been modified so much as to be largely unrecognizable from the actual event. No Irish lilt, no handsome guy, no silhouette cutouts in steel doors, no competitive elements. In fact… it’s hardly autobiographic at all except one part. Maybe two. But I’m not admitting which.
Oh, and I’m done with these forays into the past for tonight — you are spared additional horrors.
There is terror in his eyes, she can see it as their lips draw close, hover, heat rising and the warm moist breath billowing out. She stifles a laugh before it can even come to her throat, her eyes, her tight skin tingling.
It wouldn’t do to laugh.
But, she wonders, how can it is even possible for him to have survived this long without having kissed a girl before? It’s not as if he isn’t absolutely delicious — he’s been the talk of the school since he abruptly showed up mid-quarter, his striking features dreamed about by scores of girls since that rainy autumn day he strolled into the classroom with his lanky, easy good looks.
It was the accent that had trapped Jess. She was a sucker for anyone with an Irish lilt and didn’t see how anyone could avoid melting on the spot anytime he spoke. She had inherited a vigilant determination bred from generations of ancestors trying to scrape by on rugged Montana ranches and, by God, she was going to make sure she was the first girl in the school to kiss this boy. She hadn’t imagined she was going to be the firs girl to kiss him ever, which made it the bestest, greatest win of all times. Something to brag about, in fact.