Heroine Addiction
Second Draft
If sailor tales to sailor tunes,
Storm and adventure, heat and cold,
If schooners, islands, and maroons,
And buccaneers, and buried gold,
And all the old romance, retold
Exactly in the ancient way,
Can please, as me they pleased of old,
The wiser youngsters of today:
--So be it and fall on! If not,
If studious youth no longer crave,
His ancient appetites forgot,
Kingston, or Ballantyne the brave,
Or Cooper of the wood and wave:
So be it, also! And may I
And all my pirates share the grave
Where these and their creations lie!
-Robert Louis Stevenson, "To the Hesitating Purchaser"
Part One
Margo: The Beginning
Something was not right. From the moment Margo woke that morning an incessant nagging, a fly in the back of her mind, reminded her of the queerness of it, and it made her uneasy. Very uneasy. She would be engaged in the most inane task, like brushing her teeth, and it would sneak in passed her mental walls, and into her recent recognition.
She took a shower, dressed, made coffee, and packed her lunch – and still there was that feeling, a feeling of something gone awry; but it was subtle and she brushed it away each time like an annoying bug.
She finished getting dressed, and drove to work listening to NPR on the radio, and still she fought the urge to swat the bug.
Work, though, took her mind off of that peculiar feeling as she delved into it with vigor, ignoring the incessant chatter of her fellow co-workers as they griped about this—gaped about that.
But as soon as the big hand was on the twelve and the little hand was on the 15, the geometric stance that signaled her lunch break, the bug was back.
If Margo had any sense to listen to her own intuition, she would have been on her guard, but as it was she was not.
Margo plopped down onto the bench. It had been a tiring day, and this was just her lunch break. Eager to eat, she reached into her backpack to retrieve her sandwich and thermos full of green tea. Nibbling on the cheese from her sandwich, and then taking a swig of her tea, she watched as a familiar looking dog ran passed. Searching for the sign of an owner, she found no one. The park was empty except for her, and the departing dog. He seemed to be trailing a scent. Stuffing her things in her backpack, she followed the golden retriever as it disappeared into the trees.
As Margo entered the forested park of the park, she caught a glimpse of the dog’s brilliant golden tail and ran after it. Weaving in and out of the shrubbery, the dog finally stopped. Margo heaved a sigh and jogged towards the dog.
The dog was ferreting for something, nose in a pile of dead leaves, and Margo crouched near the dog.
“Come here, honey, let’s see who you belong to.” She reached towards the dog’s nose, and when he sniffed it and did not balk, she went for his collar. When she did that, the dog shoved its cold nose towards her. There was no identification on the dog, not even an identification tag.
Margo looked down to grab the dog, which had gone back to the leaves. Red, her arm where the dog and pressed it’s nose was smear red, the shade of blood, and it was wet and sticky to the touch. Margo frantically grabbed the dog’s head, and swung it around, so she could see its nose. Her augury was correct it was blood. The nose and even the paws of the dog were soaked in blood. On closer inspection so were the leaves; the brittle sable-brown and yellow were burnished blood red. Margo pushed the dog away, and frantically searched the leaves for the source of the blood.
When her fingers met something slippery wet, Margo jerked them back. Upon inspection of those fingers, she found they were red too. More blood.
After pushing the leaves away, she twisted away from the scene and lost her lunch. The bile was still green in her mouth when she turned back.
There laying in the grass and shrubbery was an arm.
Margo palms flat on her knees, her head and torso bent towards the ground, she tried to keep her breathing steady, all the while, thinking: this is so not my day.
When Margo found her head again, she searched for her cell phone to call emergency; after all she was a practical woman. Where there is smoke, there is fire Or more pertinently, where there is an arm there is a body.
But when she tried to call, her cell beeped at her no reception, and again, the thoughts ran through her head: this is so not my day.
Standing there in the grove, surrounded by trees and leaves, that imbrued cleaved arm, with no service cell phone, Margo felt her body go numb with the shock of it.
The dog was back, and when it started for the arm, Margo snapped out of her daze, and grabbed at the dog.
She slipped, and braced herself before she hit the ground.
But she didn’t. She was in free fall.
Margo forced her eyes open, and just before she hit water, the words went through her head: this is so not my day.
Just kidding. But honestly, it's really good. Write more so I can understand the rest of the story! Writergirl
You start off with the nagging feeling - what relevance is this to the actual story?
