Sacrifice
Title: Sacrifice, Prologue
Genre: original fic
Rating: R for language and violence
Warnings: Artistic license taken, abused, and then set on fire for good measure.
Summary: It was suppose to be the vacation of their dreams. Instead, Frank and Sharon discover they are inhabiting a nightmare of immeasurable proportions.
Disclaimer: Since I’ve gone Lovecraftian, I think it’s safe to say it’s all fiction. Or so we can hope.
Boston, Massachusetts
Spring 2012
Sharon was having the night of her life. The publisher had mailed the five copies they’d promised, and the moment Sharon opened the rush delivery packet she knew her book would be a success.
A modest one, in all likelihood; still the smell of fresh print, the crackle of the jacket as she flipped the open the book - it was like an angel’s lullaby to her ears.
The book in her hands and the fact she was a genuine published author at the age of thirty-two more than warranted for her to take out her three friends for a night on the town. So, after a flurry of calls, Sharon set out for Seven-0, a popular hotel bar two blocks from Newbury Street.
The town being Boston meant the party was going to die down pretty much by midnight, but still, the bar was slick and most of the clientele slicker. There were also a respectable number of eligible men eyeing them with greedy interest as they ordered one round of drinks after another.
Melissa, Sharon’s best friend from her stint at Wellesley, raised yet another glass for a toast. “To Sharon! May she prove that bitch of a mother wrong again in three years by publishing her second novel!”
“Hear, hear!” Ruth shouted gustily. Then with a big sip of the vodka drink in her grasp, she added, “And may there be a happy ending in that one!”
Sharon blew a very wet raspberry at her.
The childish act sent Orly into fits of laughter. Sharon watched her friend with open fondness. Orly was the quietest of them all but she was, without doubt, Sharon’s staunchest supporter when she decided to quit her job as an attorney for a dip in the dubious world of writing.
Feeling sudden rush of emotion, Sharon leaned over and gave Orly a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, for everything.”
Orly looked at her with shining eyes. “Oh sweetie, it was nothing. I knew you’d make it.”
“He’s looking here again,” Ruth whispered theatrically. “Give the poor boy a break, darling. Either go and say ‘yes’ or give him the finger!”
Sharon blushed, once again grateful for the dim lighting. The ‘boy’ in question was out with his own group of friends, and usually that particular crowd wouldn’t attract one whit of Sharon’s attention. She’d known too many Brooks Brothers Boys and found the group both disinteresting and disheartening.
However, this man was not like his companions. While they were obviously dressed for success, albeit with bowties and suspenders, he was in jeans, a relaxed blue shirt, and had a beaten LL Bean jacket lying across his lap. His face wasn’t handsome but it wasn’t offensive either, though the hair was somewhat shocking with its curls that could be charitably described as ringlets.
But it was his blue eyes, with its puppy-dog downturn at the corners that had charmed her from all the way across the room, and they were ever so eager to catch her gaze long enough for him to come over.
Sharon would later blame the alcohol for her next move, but whatever the motivation, she decided to give the stranger a chance. She stared right at him and tipped her head slightly to the left: an open invitation.
Spotting the ‘yes’ from his quarry, the eager suitor swiftly got off his barstool and just as quickly tripped over his own feet, falling flat on his face.
Sharon’s mouth dropped open in shock before laughter exploded from her.
She rushed over to the now-stumbling man and grabbed his hand. “Are you okay?” she asked, trying madly to quash her laughter.
He winced before answering, “I just made an ass of myself in front of my clients and you. So not okay.”
Sharon’s smile grew tender. “Not having a good day?”
He shrugged. “No, but it’s getting better.”
Strangely enough Sharon didn’t find herself insulted by the obvious ploy. Coming from other men, she would have just rolled her eyes before making excuses in order to leave. But this man meant in and she couldn’t help but feel flattered.
“Name’s Frank,” the man said. “I’m a personal trainer believe it or not.”
“Name’s Sharon. And I am an author believe it or not.”
“Really?” Frank asked, his eyes round with pleasant surprise. “What did you write? Maybe I read it.”
“I doubt it,” Sharon answered. “It’s going to hit the stores next month.”
“Could you tell me the title? If I don’t see you again I can at least tell my friends back home that I met a genuine author while I was in Boston.”
“I’ll do you one better: I’ll sign one and mail it to you.”
Frank’s awkward smile suddenly turned brilliant, and the puppy-dog eyes lit up as if he was just given the most awesome Christmas gift ever. “I wish I’d met you earlier, when I just got to Boston. I knew it’d be hard to make it here but … man, it’s cold here, if you know what I mean.”
“Poor baby,” Sharon said. “Let me see if I can warm you up and change your opinion of us Bostonians.”
Even in the dim lighting Sharon could see the blush roar down Frank’s face and into his shirt collar. And, incredibly, his two thousand kilowatt smile shone brighter.
It was a successful night on all accounts.
Genre: original fic
Rating: R for language and violence
Warnings: Artistic license taken, abused, and then set on fire for good measure.
Summary: It was suppose to be the vacation of their dreams. Instead, Frank and Sharon discover they are inhabiting a nightmare of immeasurable proportions.
Disclaimer: Since I’ve gone Lovecraftian, I think it’s safe to say it’s all fiction. Or so we can hope.
Boston, Massachusetts
Spring 2012
Sharon was having the night of her life. The publisher had mailed the five copies they’d promised, and the moment Sharon opened the rush delivery packet she knew her book would be a success.
A modest one, in all likelihood; still the smell of fresh print, the crackle of the jacket as she flipped the open the book - it was like an angel’s lullaby to her ears.
The book in her hands and the fact she was a genuine published author at the age of thirty-two more than warranted for her to take out her three friends for a night on the town. So, after a flurry of calls, Sharon set out for Seven-0, a popular hotel bar two blocks from Newbury Street.
The town being Boston meant the party was going to die down pretty much by midnight, but still, the bar was slick and most of the clientele slicker. There were also a respectable number of eligible men eyeing them with greedy interest as they ordered one round of drinks after another.
Melissa, Sharon’s best friend from her stint at Wellesley, raised yet another glass for a toast. “To Sharon! May she prove that bitch of a mother wrong again in three years by publishing her second novel!”
“Hear, hear!” Ruth shouted gustily. Then with a big sip of the vodka drink in her grasp, she added, “And may there be a happy ending in that one!”
Sharon blew a very wet raspberry at her.
The childish act sent Orly into fits of laughter. Sharon watched her friend with open fondness. Orly was the quietest of them all but she was, without doubt, Sharon’s staunchest supporter when she decided to quit her job as an attorney for a dip in the dubious world of writing.
Feeling sudden rush of emotion, Sharon leaned over and gave Orly a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, for everything.”
Orly looked at her with shining eyes. “Oh sweetie, it was nothing. I knew you’d make it.”
“He’s looking here again,” Ruth whispered theatrically. “Give the poor boy a break, darling. Either go and say ‘yes’ or give him the finger!”
Sharon blushed, once again grateful for the dim lighting. The ‘boy’ in question was out with his own group of friends, and usually that particular crowd wouldn’t attract one whit of Sharon’s attention. She’d known too many Brooks Brothers Boys and found the group both disinteresting and disheartening.
However, this man was not like his companions. While they were obviously dressed for success, albeit with bowties and suspenders, he was in jeans, a relaxed blue shirt, and had a beaten LL Bean jacket lying across his lap. His face wasn’t handsome but it wasn’t offensive either, though the hair was somewhat shocking with its curls that could be charitably described as ringlets.
But it was his blue eyes, with its puppy-dog downturn at the corners that had charmed her from all the way across the room, and they were ever so eager to catch her gaze long enough for him to come over.
Sharon would later blame the alcohol for her next move, but whatever the motivation, she decided to give the stranger a chance. She stared right at him and tipped her head slightly to the left: an open invitation.
Spotting the ‘yes’ from his quarry, the eager suitor swiftly got off his barstool and just as quickly tripped over his own feet, falling flat on his face.
Sharon’s mouth dropped open in shock before laughter exploded from her.
She rushed over to the now-stumbling man and grabbed his hand. “Are you okay?” she asked, trying madly to quash her laughter.
He winced before answering, “I just made an ass of myself in front of my clients and you. So not okay.”
Sharon’s smile grew tender. “Not having a good day?”
He shrugged. “No, but it’s getting better.”
Strangely enough Sharon didn’t find herself insulted by the obvious ploy. Coming from other men, she would have just rolled her eyes before making excuses in order to leave. But this man meant in and she couldn’t help but feel flattered.
“Name’s Frank,” the man said. “I’m a personal trainer believe it or not.”
“Name’s Sharon. And I am an author believe it or not.”
“Really?” Frank asked, his eyes round with pleasant surprise. “What did you write? Maybe I read it.”
“I doubt it,” Sharon answered. “It’s going to hit the stores next month.”
“Could you tell me the title? If I don’t see you again I can at least tell my friends back home that I met a genuine author while I was in Boston.”
“I’ll do you one better: I’ll sign one and mail it to you.”
Frank’s awkward smile suddenly turned brilliant, and the puppy-dog eyes lit up as if he was just given the most awesome Christmas gift ever. “I wish I’d met you earlier, when I just got to Boston. I knew it’d be hard to make it here but … man, it’s cold here, if you know what I mean.”
“Poor baby,” Sharon said. “Let me see if I can warm you up and change your opinion of us Bostonians.”
Even in the dim lighting Sharon could see the blush roar down Frank’s face and into his shirt collar. And, incredibly, his two thousand kilowatt smile shone brighter.
It was a successful night on all accounts.