July 24, 2012
I've written one YA novel - it only took about five years - now to get started on the second!
I hated that little red car. So perky and shiny. A gerbera perpetually poking from the dashboard. It looked like a child's play thing, and perhaps to her it was. But not a well-worn one, well-loved certainly, but cared for with such devotion, driven so cautiously, there was never a scratch on it. Until now. The ladybird-red side panel bore the brunt of the damage. A deep long gash, edged with black. Black from my sedan. Transferred like blood, rendering me a likely suspect. But the smashed headlights, that could’ve been anyone. Anyone with a cricket bat or a sledge hammer; usual things kept in a London apartment. But she’d never accuse me. No. It would hurt her too much. Hurt her to think that her innocent world could be marred by a premeditated attack. Besides, she had no idea what she’d done to provoke it. She never knew what it is she did. Her easy smiles, her gentle kisses; she was oblivious. At least now her car bore some of my scars.
Hello fellow creative souls! I'm a writer with a day job, trying to make writing my day job.