A Glimpse into Roanoke.

I’ve written somewhere around 3200 words today. Here are my favorites thus far.

She ran down the beach to the water line, giggling in both terror and excitement as she looked over her shoulder. This man — this new man who said his name was John Smith, a sure sign he was a terrorist and or a liar — chased her at least fifty yards behind. Lilac wasn’t sure what had come over her; she’d always been sure of herself, confident that nothing would get between her and her Calvins. And yet as she ran from him, she knew she was teasing and delaying the inevitable.

John called after her, words she couldn’t hear, but sense. She turned again and saw he closed the distance to just twenty-five yards. Her heart raced from the exercise and excitement and anticipation. She took her eyes off the darkness in front of her and tripped over a piece of driftwood, sending her crashing into the sand with a great poof and an audible laugh from her pursuer.

Great, she thought. Graceful as always.

John stopped short of her. “Are you alright?” he asked, smiling from about five yards away.

“Fine. Just my pride is all. I should mention I’m not very graceful, especially after a few drinks.” Their eyes locked and she expected him to pounce and take her, right there on the beach. She’d let him, probably. This wasn’t her; not at all. Instead he held a hand out with a smile.

“Come on.” She took his hand and stood, blushing at him, saying thank you with no words coming out.

“You caught me,” she said, biting her bottom lip. She never bit her bottom lip while looking at a man with a stolen glance.

“No, you fell. You can keep running if you want to,” he started. He got as far as the word running, before she kissed him. She never made the first move, though sprinting from the bar, and acting like a girl was also not something she ever did.

She could get used to it. His hands never moved from her shoulders, despite the feeling as though she was about to be ravished, that she was about to be taken as she’d never done before. And in truth, she barely had. Once, The Boy of The Broken Heart, her last beau tried and failed miserably before her heart shattered in a million, billion pieces.

Lilac heard rockets, the staccato beat of something she thought to be her heart. She heard a flute, somewhere in the distance as the sounds of rockets became more drum like. A snare drum playing a pa-da-pum-pa-pa, each beat punctuated by the wires below the snare drum. There were at least ten, joined by flutes, playing something whimsical, as though to announce the presence of something, someone. She broke the kiss, looking in Johns eyes.

“I found you,” he said, smiling. “It’s really you.”

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