But what does one do with prompts like this??
1. the setting ~ a bar that magically appears as a haven to those who have been dumped on NYE
2. some background to one of the main protags ~ one has never had a NYE kiss and is determined that this will be the year
3. another character/s ~ an unusual trio of fairy dragmothers in all shapes, sizes and powers
4. a conflict ~ the main characters are officially strangers but have a history of – seeing each other at the most embarrassing moments
5. an object/phrase/theme/whatever to be mentioned in the story somewhere ~ pickled eggs
Here's a sneak preview:
"Where're we going?" I shifted in my seat,
checked and confirmed the blocked door and window locks as inconspicuously as
possible. Obviously, we weren't going "out" anytime soon, other than
outside of town by the looks of the rapidly passing barren landscape. "I
take it your intentions over the last few weeks have been more business
oriented than pleasure." I said it with a chuckle, hoping he'd change his
mind since this was New Year's Eve. For chrissake, who'd rather shoot someone at
the stroke of midnight than kiss? I wouldn't; I was a lover not a fighter. Too
bad my family didn't see it that way. He cleared his throat, and I met a look I
couldn't quite read. "Really." That's about all I could think to say
as I stared into his eyes. Eyes that said no more than "I'm not here for
games." Neither was I. Not now.
To think I actually entertained the thought that he
might be the one. I looked back out the window and at the darkening horizon. Joe,
Jim... John—Yeah, from this moment forward, I'd refer to this stooge—my latest
liar of a boyfriend, for this wasn't the first time this'd happened to me—as
John. Three weeks ago when we'd met for the first time at Porgy's, he'd told me
his name was Steve, but if he tried to tell me the truth now, I had no reason
to believe him. Sometimes they did that, just before pulling the trigger or
snapping open their switchblades; some crazy notion came over them to confess
all their sins to me... as if that would change the outcome of their destination.
Why
me? That
was my question as the limo sped along the highway, toward the Ruby Mountains:
why was I—the youngest of four—voted most likely heir to a family business I
wanted no part of to begin with. Besides, what bragging rights are there in
making your fortune in pickled eggs? So, gramps had diversified and landed this
protection gig in Elko, one my godfather, Franky, insisted I carry on since my
father had disappeared—rumored to have become part of the courthouse
foundation—long before I was out of diapers. No matter how enterprising my
ancestors were, didn't mean I was proud of the path they'd chosen.
I hated my life.
"Listen, we don't have to do this," I
said, offering what's his name a chance to change his mind as I met his gaze
once more—a gaze that told me he was set in his decision. But his smirk told me
his resolve came from money than conviction. "One last chance to change
your mind."
In less time than it took me to swallow my disgust,
his growing smile garnered my left knee, and the back of his head reflected off
my corresponding elbow. The limo swerved, accommodating our tumble into a pile
on the floor. A series of short jabs later, a flip of my wrist, perfect hand
placement, a quick snap. Jim, Joe, Bob, Ray... Steve—John lay crumpled and
lifeless.
Brushing the dust from my lapels, I retook my seat.
Seconds later, I cracked my neck, then smoothed back my hair. I couldn't die
yet. Twenty-four and I hadn't got a proper New Year's Eve kiss—the ones from
Aunt Sue and Uncle Hugh when I was twelve sure as hell didn't count. I glanced
at the body, still not breathing. Stupid fucker. Like I said, I'd been through
this before. Numerous times, in fact, since I'd turned twenty-one, and always
just before some holiday. This year's attempt simply happened to fall on New
Year's Eve.
Him or me. Seemed I was forever watching my back. Survival
didn't count against your record to the big guy, did it? I drew my weapon,
tapped on the glass separating me from the driver. The light flicked on as the
windows separated, and, with a firm nudge to the back of his head, I got his
attention. "Pull it over. I'm out of here."
Sweat trickled down his face from under his cap, but
he didn't try anything funny, just pulled the beast onto the shoulder and hit
the locks. I couldn't help but take a final look at the man called Steve, the
same man that finally, who after months of wining and dining, I'd decided to
give my heart. Greed's a motherfucker.
With each passing year, I hated being me a little more. Pathetic for someone so young, my next thought. The driver revved
the engine. "Good man," I said upon exiting into the cold, dry air.
Without hesitation, he whipped the limo around and
headed back toward town. I wouldn't have hurt him. Not like any driver had a
dog in the fucked-up power struggle I knew as the status quo. The star-filled
sky came better into focus the farther from me he got, and before his
taillights were out of sight, I found myself surrounded by darkness, night
sounds, and a thick blanket of stars. I pulled out my cell phone— Great! The air left my lungs. No service. Just how far into the mountains was I?
Happy Holidays!
Bryl
R. Tyne is a wrangler by nature and a writer by choice,
published with Noble Romance Publishing, Ravenous Romance,
Dreamspinner Press, STARbooks Press, Untreed Reads Publishing,
Changeling Press, Amber Quill Press, and Riptide Publishing. Check out Bryl's
bi-monthly column: My Way Find out more about the author at: bryltyne.com
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