Welcome to the twentieth in a 31-day series Story A Day May 2013.
Late April 2011 I discovered http://StoryADay.org and the project that is to write 31 stories in 31 days. Anyone who knows me or follows this blog, knows how passionate I am about short stories so my clichéd eyes lit up at this new marvel. And just a few days later there I was, breathing life into new characters. This went on to become (with some editing of course) my 31-story collection eBook Story A Day May 2011.
I was nearing completion of the 2012 project when I decided that I didn’t want to stop at the end of May so 5PM Fiction was born. This is on hold this month as I write a story a day for SADM2013
Today’s prompt was to write a story from a young version of a current work-in-progress antagonist. The second novel I wrote (between NaNoWriMos 2008 and 2009), After Jessica, is about a woman called Jessica who dies in chapter 2 (not a spoiler, by the way) and her brother then has to tie up her estate and finds that her life wasn’t as simple as he thought. She isn’t the typical antagonist because she’s dead (and no, it’s not a ghost story) but I thought an interesting person to do. Below is my 253-worder.
She took another sip and grimaced. Chocolate. She needed chocolate, the epitome of comfort food.
Epitome. Not a word most sixteen-year-olds knew the meaning of but the dictionary was one of her favourite books.
Simon, her older-by-two-years brother, would laugh at her, her head always buried in something; fiction, non-fiction, Jessica didn’t mind which. She especially loved the law so read crime novels, not the gory type where there’s blood oozing on every other page but clever crime, cosy; Agatha Christie and the likes.
Simon was more of a science-fiction, Doctor Who fan, although he’d not be seen dead with a book in his hands, the TV far more realistic in his opinion, video box sets his only request at Christmas and birthdays.
Jessica didn’t see the point of half-watching a programme, face peering from behind a cushion. She’d rather sit glued to every second, every frame, appreciating the work the cameramen had put in. It was an art. Everyone involved were artists.
She’d loved to do something in films, not act, she had a terrible memory, but something behind the scenes. In case it didn’t work out, she’d enrolled on a typing course, second week in.
She looked at her at chewed nails. Long nails were impractical on a typewriter, even electronic ones. A good excuse, she thought as she slurped the remnants of her orange juice.
Picture above courtesy of morguefile.com.
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