She slid into the driver’s seat, wincing as her shoulder brushed the leather surface. Blood from her hand smeared the shifter. She slid the key into the slot, twisted, and the engine rumbled to life.
This piece is what I call a vignette, something not long enough or fleshed out sufficiently to be considered a short story. I use these as writing experiments, allowing me to play with mood, setting, action, dialog, etc. This is the first of several that I will be publishing here over time. I hope you enjoy it.
It was a dark and stormy night. Wind howled in the trees and a shutter banged relentlessly against the side of the house like a half-crazed lunatic trying to get in. Lightning would split the sky like a white hot knife, or backlight the clouds with no warning. Thunder would rattle and shake the windows, doors, clapboard, timbers as it rolled and boiled through the air. This was not a night to be outside. This was a night to be in another town, another country, another continent.