PASSENGERS

As I came through the door, a dark-haired man stepped over a pair of corpses and handed me his gun. In that moment, I realized every word Fabrizzio had fed me over the last year was a lie. I hadn’t been drafted into this elite government agency because they needed my singular skill-set. I’d been setup to facilitate the deconstruction of Paladia's notoriously honorable police detective, Paolo Luna.

It was Paolo who’d handed me the gun moments ago and who regarded me now with a vacant stare that told me he’d been effectively neutralized. Why hadn’t they just killed him? Why reprogram him as a passenger? And why assign me as his handler? Sure, his name was scrawled across half my auto theft collars but we didn’t have any other connection or history, so why use me to burn him?

I waited until we'd cleared the scene and were on the freeway to blow off steam courtesy of the fuel-injected throttle-bodies and for a handful of glorious miles, we tore up the asphalt. He sat beside me, enjoying the ride with a smile that almost reached his eyes. Soon as we hit the five mile marker, he suggested that we listen to some music. I yanked the mp3 player out of my jacket and tossed it to him, struggling to keep my facial expression relaxed.

The internal prompt to listen to music was part of the protocol to keep him within a five mile radius of a control team while he was in the vulnerable post-action lull, when his consciousness might surface due to a variety of unpredictable stimuli. Listening to the next song on the mp3 player would program him for his next assignment and then he’d be indomitable until it was complete and he returned, full circle, to his fragile five-mile state.

Unfortunately, the songs just sounded like music to me, which meant I received my part of the assignments – when and where to drop him off and retrieve him – as he deemed necessary. Fabrizzio would stay conveniently out of the picture until the playlist came to an end. My stomach clenched. I’d never get my passenger beyond the agency’s reach. He’d always be just five miles away from another assignment.

Two hours later, we were camped out in a low rent motel. While he showered, I glanced at the mp3 player. Twenty-two songs left in the queue. We were in the loop for twenty-two back-to-back assignments. They were going to grind us to death long before I could figure a way out. How could I accomplish anything with just five miles opportunity every day?

A shadow fell across room and I looked up to find him moving towards me. For a heartbeat, I forgot that he was a cop, a passenger, a man in mortal danger, and only saw a powerfully built, darkly handsome, fiercely charismatic man, one who continued to fight battles he couldn’t win simply because he was sworn to serve and protect.

His kiss surprised me but more than that, it provoked something in him and he drew back, astonishment stamped across his face, and uttered a single word. “Josette.”

My name. My real name, not the one that had been fabricated for me and encoded in his programming. In a flash, I had become the unpredictable stimuli that would unlock Paolo’s mind. I just needed to keep provoking him until everything shook loose.

I slid out of my jeans and t-shirt, lay back on the bed, and held out my hand. His mind was still under lock and key but his body was under no such restraint. I felt a twinge of awe as he settled himself over me, his taut dusky body a pornographic promise.

We were both passengers on this mutha-luvin’ freeway from hell but Fabrizzio forgot a little thing called road rage, and Paolo and I were about to flip-a-bitch on the bastard. 

(650 words)

Written for Jeff Tsuruoka's Mid-Week Blues Buster. The prompt was the song "Riders of the Freeway" by Kira.

STEAMED     (*Part Three) 

When Mallory stepped from behind the dressing screen, Sebastian would have been rendered instantly catatonic had it not been for the torrent of protests that erupted from his mouth like scalding lava spewing from a volcano in full bloom, beginning with: “Woman, I have learned to put up with your unorthodox methods, jagged disposition and damnable dogmatism, but these machinations which involve you dressing in scandalously provocative attire to facilitate our escape, from one calamity or another, test my mettle to the breaking point and I refuse to agree that using your not inconsiderable feminine wiles is our only option in this instance – or any other.”

“Unless you’re hiding an outrageously curvaceous body under that god-awful peacoat,” she replied, pushing the infrared lenses further up her forehead to employ her wickedly inky eyelashes, “you know bloody well that your only hope of breaking into the safe and recovering your idiot brother’s gambling losses, and thereby saving the Tasymor from seizure, depends on me distracting the ambassador with my ample charms.”

He let out a little growl, like a wounded animal, grabbed her around the waist and said, “In spite of all the trouble you take to torment me every waking moment – and you, my callous minx, have tormenting down to such a severe science that you could scorch the wings right off an angel and send him plummeting to hell without a drop of hope in his blazing hand-basket – I trust you Mal, with my ship, with my life, and with my zealous heart.”

“Oh Bas,” she said, backing her little rounded rump into the firm cradle of his hips, “that’s such a sweet sentiment that I’m almost tempted to let you undo my corset strings, but you know the delicate balance between work and relationship, and you know how much we have on our hands, what with keeping your brother out of trouble and the Tasymor booked with regularly scheduled flights, so it’s best to keep things the way they are, platonic, plain and simple.”

Voice rough with desire, he said, “No, my intoxicating firebrand, I am done with pretense, so let me remind you that I am not a man to be toyed with, that I am your equal in every way, and that I know you ache for me as much as a bird wants wings and a heart needs blood, and only your complete and utter capitulation here and now, my love, will persuade me to go to the embassy and save our lives later tonight.”

5 (streched beyond all reason) Sentences / 422 Words

Written for Lillie McFerrin's FSF prompt GOGGLES.

* This is a companion piece to two earlier FSF prompts (Steamed #1 "Tattered" and Steamed #2 "Pirates") and dedicated to my Dirty Goggles Blog Hop co-hosts Jenn and Steven. 

Riveting

Every great advance in science has issued from a new audacity of imagination. ~ John Dewey ~

The horse’s hooves danced restlessly on the cobbles as her voice rose in a shrill crescendo. “No, Uncle Albert, I will not calm down. You brought me here under false pretenses and if you do not take me home at once -”

Albert, who was not her uncle, and who had suffered these sorts of hot-headed diatribes from her as far back as her days as a poppet perched on her papa’s knee, took the fit of temper in stride. “I’m going into the shop now, Violet. I have instructed Phillip to keep you here at all cost, so do not waste your considerable energy planning one of your dramatic escapes or public appeals for rescue.”

She lobbed her fan at his back as he stepped from the carriage to the street. When he did not respond, she set her attention to the window shade, yanking on it with such violence it nearly sprung free of the spool. As it was, it shot open with such vehemence that the younger of the groomsmen peered into the window, his face etched with alarm, which she remedied by making googly eyes and fish lips.

Her antics were interrupted when the carriage door opened and Albert climbed inside, followed by a tall thick man dressed in gray and sporting an intense blue-eyed stare.

Without preamble, Albert said, “Malcolm Blackburn, may I present my charge, Lady Violet Scofield.”

Doffing his hat, Malcolm tipped his head respectfully. “Lady Violet -“

With a dismissive wave of her gloved hand, she interrupted. “Mr. Blackburn, I appreciate that you entertained Uncle Albert’s whim and came out to meet me, truly I do, but I assure you that we have no need of your services – “

He cut her off, earning a look of surprise from Albert. “I am sorry to hear that, my lady, but I am not surprised. Your grandfather forewarned me that you were impetuous and headstrong. Good day to you both.” Nodding curtly, he stepped out of the carriage.

Violet’s mouth went dry. This behemoth of a man knew her grandfather? Blast it! Having to eat crow this early in the morning couldn’t be good for one’s digestive tract.

Uncle Albert poked her with his cane. “Don’t just sit there festering like a crumpet on a teacart, sassafras. Go after him!”

Bestowing him with the scowl she couldn’t afford to give the enigmatic Mr. Blackburn, she gathered her skirts and rose. “If you weren’t so bloody efficient at handling my finances – and household staff – and every other facet of my complicated existence, I’d dismiss you immediately.”

Nonplussed, he slapped his gloves on his thigh and said, “You’d better hurry. He's the only person qualified to understand your grandfather's mechanical work and research.”

Too agitated to wait for the groomsman, she pushed open the door, but instead of gracefully alighting and stalking after him, she tripped on a boot lace and tumbled headlong out of the carriage.

As she sat in the street amidst the tangle of her amber silk skirts and muddied ivory blouse, the surprise on her face framed by the riotous ginger curls now free of her hat, she bit her lip to keep from cursing – or crying.

A well-cut pair of gray trousers crouched beside her. “May I be of assistance?”

Without looking up, she shook her head. “If it’s all the same to you, I believe I’d like sit to just here and sulk a bit.”

“At least let me leave you with a companion,” he said, handing her a small metal object before standing up.

She watched his elegant boots walk away, but the whirring of gears, pitched low and pulsing as fluidly as a firefly’s heartbeat, diverted her attention. It was a clockwork arachnoid, just like the one her grandfather made. “Wait a moment, Mr. Blackburn! Malcolm! Sir!”

His feet stopped.

Clutching the spider, she scrambled after him. “I was wrong. Scofield House needs you. That is to say, Uncle Albert needs you. Oh, blast, I need you. I’ve behaved abominably this morning and I’d like to say I’m sorry, but I wasn’t at the time, and I’d like to promise it won’t happen again, but it will, and I realize that I don’t have much to recommend me except that I’ve an aptitude for technology and I’m dedicated to preserving my grandfather’s mechanical legacy, so if you could just give me another chance before walking away – ”

He chuckled. “I wasn’t walking away, Lady Violet. Merely changing tactics. Now, how about you and Albert come inside and we discuss the theft of your grandfather’s research journals over a nice tray of tea and scones.”

“Just a spot of tea for me, please,” she said, flashing him a mischievous smile. “I’ve eaten enough crow today to put me off food for a fortnight.”

He offered her his arm, and when she took it, he drew her close just long enough to say, “You, my waspish beauty, are exhausting, tempestuous, and utterly riveting. I welcome the damage you’re going to do to my laboratory – and life – with open arms.”

860 words

JINK

Manila folder stashed inside his jacket, Ralph Kirshaw ducked into the office, head down and shoulders hunched, as though a flock of crows was dive-bombing him.

Davis looked up from his logbook. “You know they’ll dock my pay for letting you in here.”

Kirshaw leaned against the file cabinet, struck a match and put it to his Chesterfield. After a couple drags, he said, “I’ll reimburse double what you lose if you get my plane in the air before sundown.”

“Not on your life. No way am I going to disregard your ‘no fly’ status. Besides, now that a second world war has been avoided, the fleet is slated to be scrapped, beginning with your hangar.”

“What?!” The cigarette fell from Kirshaw’s fingers. “They can’t do that!”

“Keep your voice down, Ralph,” Davis said, getting up from his desk and tamping the cigarette into the cement. “A mechanic picked up your plane’s tag and headed to Hangar D about an hour ago.”

“Please, tell me it’s Palmer.”

“It’s Palmer all right but – -”

Kirshaw was out the door and down the hall before Davis finished his answer. He strode into the hangar and strutted around the tail of his spitfire, scarf trailing behind him, looking like a peacock with his tail splayed. “I’m calling in that little favor, sport.”

Palmer peered at him from inside the engine compartment, face smeared with grease, eyes dark as storm clouds.

But it wasn’t the face Kirshaw expected and his bravado faltered. “Frankie.”

The stormy eyes stared back at him without blinking. “Kirshaw.”

He didn’t have the time to waste on verbal skirmishes with such a well met opponent. He was forced to resort to candor and honesty, two ideals which were in short supply where he was concerned. “Look Frankie, we’ve had our differences but I need to get airborne something fierce.”

She dropped from the ladder to the concrete. “Even if my father hadn’t banned you from flying, I have your motor halfway torn down, so you’re grounded six ways from Saturday night.”

No choice but to come clean. “If I’m not in the sky before chow, I’ll be grounded the rest of my life.”

“Care to be more specific?”

He looked out the hangar door. “I’m miserable on the ground. I’d do anything to get in the air. Thirty minutes ago, I swiped a dossier from the general’s desk, hoping that if I delivered it ahead of the proposed schedule I might have a shot at getting my license and plane back.”

She crossed her arms. “You get caught with that dossier on your person and the only shot you’re going to get is a bullet in your traitor’s heart.”

“Just get me up there, Frankie. I swear on your daddy’s pay-grade that if I’m caught, I’ll keep your name out of it. And if I make it, I promise to make good on whatever price you set for helping me.”

She stripped off her work-gloves and shimmied out of her coveralls. “Show me the dossier.”

His brain was screaming ‘no’ but his hand offered it to her.

She thumbed through the documents. “These are prototype blueprints for an airship, you bloody idiot! Every agency in the country will be looking for them! We have to get out of here like yesterday!”

“We?”

She took off down the hangar at a near run. “Yeah, WE. You just got yourself a partner. You won’t make it out of here without me and I’m not letting those plans out of my sight.”

“What about my plane?”

Heading for the commander’s twin cockpit Mustang, she shouted, “You’re thinking too small, Kirshaw. Forget about your license and plane, and start dreaming about commanding the fleet of airships I’m going to build you. We’re going to own the sky, flyboy.”

He paused at the cockpit steps and looked at her. She stood there breathless with excitement, red hair spilling over her shoulders and down her back, glorious grin curving her pert pink mouth, looking like the second coming of Orville Wright.

Sure, he was a hard living, loud mouthed, adrenalin addict but he had enough sense to know better than to let this girl with the gams and brains get away from him. “Partners, huh? Damn if I don’t like the sound of that! Come on, Frances Palmer! Let’s go write our own history!”

728 words

Jink is an aviation term that means "to maneuver violently to avoid a threat."

How To Write Your First Steampunk or Dieselpunk Story

Most importantly, relax and have fun!

This is not a history exam.

This is creative imagination ON THE LOOSE!

Steampunk and Dieselpunk are based on A WORLD THAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN.

These stories take us back in time to A FUTURE THAT NEVER HAPPENED.

This means you have lots of room to create, imagine and play with your story!

In short, rest assured that Jenn, Steven and I are far more interested in your willingness to participate than rigidly expecting a ‘perfect’ story!

(1) START WITH A STORY

Conjure a new story in your genre of choice: horror, adventure, mystery, romance, etc.

Beginning = Character needs/wants something he or she can’t or doesn’t have

Middle = Character goes through a series of objectives and failures in pursuit of the need/want

End = Character obtains the need/want (or doesn’t) and lives happily ever after (or doesn’t)

Rework a story you’ve already written and imbue it with Steampunk or Dieselpunk genre elements.

(2) INJECT GENRE ELEMENTS

Consider making the Steampunk or Dieselpunk element the character’s need/want OR the solution to obtaining the need/want.

For Example: In a medical emergncy, Suzie Q must ask the curmudgeonly neighbor if he will take her to the hospital in his steam-powered flying vehicle. (The vehicle is the solution to the character’s need).

Consider making the story setting the genre element by having the story play out inside an airship, or air hangar.

Consider making the characters the genre element: handsome spies with steam powered gadgets, heroic figures with steam powered replacement limbs, suave flyboys with attitude, pinup girls with an aptitude for military hardware.

Quick Tips:

Focus on one or two elements at most – any more will overwhelm a story of 500-700 words.

Keep steam or diesel gadget details brief – suspension of belief is in full play here!

Don’t worry about capturing dialect or era correct speech right now.

(3) RUB SHOULDERS WITH THE GENRES 

Steampunk

The Victorian Era

World of brocade walls, social expectations, and restrained behavior

Elegant and opulent surroundings

Subtle or outright conflict

Ideals infused with the spirit of optimism and idealism

Valued applicability and adaptability

Challenge to social order, society or oneself

Believed in bettering life via science and innovation

* Wild West Steampunk: David lee Summers asserts in his fine post “Wild West Steampunk” that while America and the west coast lacked factories, it was rife with technology, resources (gold, copper and coal), and British immigrants (whose skulls were jam packed with Victorian Know How). The county was riddled with railroads and machine shops, and burgeoning with conflict. Think back to television’s THE WILD WILD WEST.

Dieselpunk

The post-World War One era

World of dirt, oil, grit and mud

Dystopian in nature

Awareness that world / people / technologies are imperfect 

A culture of grey morality

Diesel powered generators, internal combustion motors and lighter alloys and plastics revolutionize transportation

Anachronistic super-advanced technology that is often awesome but impractical

* The Split View – Be aware that there are two timelines of Dieselpunk based on the onset of WWII. For the purpose of this blog hop, it makes no difference which you subscribe to!

Ottensian = pre WWII / hopeful dystopian

Piecraftian = post WWII / near hopeless dystopian

(4) SPEED PLOT TO FIRM UP YOUR STORY IDEA

Writer Lynn Veihl’s "Three Questions" is the simplest plotting method out there. The easiest way to craft a story at top speed is by picking characters, deciding on the climax and then plotting the story to make that scene happen.

Start By Asking Three Questions:

1 – What are you and what do you do?
2 – What do you want?
3 – What's the worst possible thing that could happen to you?

VEIHL’S EXAMPLES:

1 – I am a Spy and I steal secrets from my enemies.
2 – I want to destroy my enemy.
3 – Convince me that I've been working on the wrong side all along.

1 – I'm a Vampire and a predator.
2 – I need blood to live.
3 – Make me fall in love with the one person I will destroy with my appetites.
 

Use The Answers To Draft Your Story

Once you know the answers to these questions you are primed to write!

The “Who I Am / What I Do” = the inciting incident (gets the story rolling).

The “Worst Possible Thing” = the character’s ORDEAL (comprises the story / aka ‘the plot’).

The “What I Want” = the resolution (wraps up the story).

LADY BULLISH’S EXAMPLES

These are the two stories I’m working on for the hop.

Steampunk

1 – I am an heiress and I have custody of secret technological wonders

2 – I want my family to retain the scientific credit

3 – Force me to realize that I need outside help

RIVETING Story Blurb:

When a priceless piece of technology is stolen from her family estate, affluent heiress Lady Violet Scofield must solicit the help of a man with mysterious ties to her scientifically gifted grandfather.

Dieselpunk

1 – I am a pilot and I deliver secret information

2 – I want to be my own boss

3 – Make me partner with someone who has the power to crush me

JINK Story Blurb:

When hotshot flyboy Ralph Kirshaw schemes to get his ‘no fly’ order rescinded, he must wrestle with the reality that his slender hope rests on the one person who could keep him grounded permanently.

NOW, my inky lovelies – get to plotting!!

SOMEWHERE UNDER A TAHITIAN SKY

I lie on my tummy, head and shoulders hanging over the edge of the deck, peering into the lagoon below, leaving my skirt to the mercy of the island breeze fluttering through the bungalow.

His scent rides the breeze so that I know the precise moment he arrives but I pretend I’m absorbed in the underwater activity, even when his bare thighs slide over me, like the sun skimming the horizon.

He leans forward, brushing a kiss across my nape while removing the clips from my hair, his fingers swimming through it like clownfish through anemone, before he takes a handful and tugs, just a little.

I know what he wants, but I remain still a handful of heartbeats longer before rolling over and lying beneath him on my back.

“Why do you always race to the end of a story?” he asks, one finger lazily tracing the swell of my breasts.

I tremble under his touch. “That’s where they live happily ever after.”

“No, my butterfly loach, they live happily all along the way.” His hands travel lower, their movements gentle as seaweed undulating beneath the seawater and my attention is divided between his spellbinding touch and the siren-song of his voice. “Don’t you want to hear the whole story?”

One word never took so long to utter – a lifetime of want in a single syllable. “Yes.”

He settles his hips into the cradle of mine so that we are fitted like two halves of an oyster’s shell. “Then you can’t afford to skip one page, one paragraph, one sentence. Every syllable is rife with meaning.”

He reaches for my hand and puts a book into it. I look at him in astonishment, meeting his eyes for the first time since his arrival, falling into a hue truer than the color of the sky overhead, deeper than the ocean below – and for a moment, I drown. But he brings me back with a kiss, his mouth warm as the sea and salty as the rim of a margarita glass.

“Read,” he says, before his lips takes on other tasks.

“H-how much?” I stammer, shocked to have the tables turned on me.

“The first chapter.”

“But its twenty-three pages …” I try to protest, but words fail me and I flounder.

He comes up for air. “At two hundred fifty words per page, that’s nearly six thousand words during which I’m going to sustain you at fever pitch. The least you could do is agree to read …”

“No!” I plunge right over the threshold of defiance and frustration.

He rises like a dolphin breaching the surface, gazing at me through eyes wide as tidal pools and just as full of surprises. “Read for me, angelfish.”

“No.” But I can’t look away from those eyes, as readable as the text in my hand.

He slides his shirt over his head. “Read for me, blue damsel.”

“Never.” But even as I say it, I’m opening the book.

He lowers himself over me again and I am overwhelmed by him, as always, his very presence intoxicating me in a way no liquor ever could.

Struggling to steady my voice, I begin. “Chapter One.”

A chuckle spills from his mouth, pools into the hollow of my throat, and reverberates down my vertebrae. “You had it right, little starfish. That’s enough reading for now.”

And then I understand the value of my submission as his body crashes against mine like the tide overtaking the beach – and this time, I let myself drown, willingly giving myself over to him body and soul – because I’m no longer in a hurry – because I want to live in every exquisite moment – because he’ll be with me all along the way.

629 words 

Written for Jeff Tsuruoka's Mid-Week Blues Buster. The prompt was "Sea of Love" by the Honeydrippers.

Welcome Aboard The Alternate Reality Train

Hop Theme: Steampunk and Dieselpunk

Dates: May 6-12, 2013

Word Count: 500-700 Words

Entries: One entry per category per person

Hop Hashtag: #DirtyGoggles

Hosts: Jenn, Steven and Ruth 

Category Definintions 

STEAMPUNK

Victorian Era – Britain / 1837 to 1901

An era defined by romanticism and reform

Spirit of the age: brass bands; photography; industrialization; gas lighting

Steampunk injects sci fi and steam technologies to create an alternate reality

DIESELPUNK

Post WW1 and Pre WW11 – Britain and USA / 1920-1950

An era defined by movement and revolution

Spirit of the age: jazz; modern art; world wars; streamlined technology

Dieselpunk injects sci fi and diesel technologies to create an alternate reality

Inspiration:     

Pinboards

Dirty Goggles Board

Bullish's Steampunk Board: Corsets and Clockworks

Bullish's Dieselpunk Board: Dirigibles and Dollfaces

Playlists

Dirty Goggles Steampunk

Dirty Goggles Dieselpunk

For each entry please list the following:

Title

Word Count

Author Name and Twitter Handle (if you have one)

Category – Steampunk or Dieselpunk

Content Label

• Not Safe For Work (NSFFW)
• Contains Violence
• Contains Erotica 

Prizes:

$25 Amazon Card – Best Steampunk – best captures the spirit of Steampunk

$25 Amazon Card – Best Dieselpunk – best captures the spirit of Dieselpunk

Fan Favorite Bragging Rights – Best Technical – best use of technology to create alternate reality

​Inlinkz Info: 

The linky will be live on all three host's blogs from 12:01 am May 6 through 11:59 pm on May 12

RESOURCES: 

Steampunk and Dieslpunk are relatively new genres and we understand they may seem overwhelming to the uninitated but we're totally commited to supporting your story creation.

You can submit questions via facebook, twitter or G+ and we'll respond as soon as humanly possible.

We'll also be sharing our own steampunk and diesel stories throughout the week as examples.

Here are two (related) pieces of steampunk flash fiction from my archives: 

• Steamed # 1
• Steamed # 2

Fun Story Kickstarters To Explore: 

Steampunk Random Story Generator 

Alternate Reality Story Generator

Steampunk Name Generator

Clockwork

Steampunk Tropes

Diselpunk Tropes 

Steampunk Plot Bunnies

Steampunk and Dieselpunk Overview

Steampunk Aesthetic

Dieselpunk Overview

 Loading InLinkz …

This story is dedicated to my daughter-in-law AJ, a TRUE CRIME fan if ever there was one!

JACK-KNIFED 

Written for Jeff Tsuruoka's Mid-Week Blues Buster. 

AND THE WALLS CAME TUMBLING DOWN

I’m not going to lie. It was pretty awesome to have our fifteen minutes of notoriety. 

The celebratory fireworks were phenomenal, the wine top-shelf, and the disco dance contest superfly.

What topped it all, though, was knowing that together, as a thriving creative community, we’d brought the bastards to their knees. So long, Traditional Publishing.

(55 words)

Written for Lisa McCourt Hollar's 55 Word Challenge. This week, to celebrate the 55th week of the challenge, we were required to incorporate all three photos (disco ball, wine glasses, and fireworks) and stay within a theme: CELEBRATION. I thought it would be fun to make the celebration something along the theme of our creative community overcthrowing the traditional publishing paradigm and finding indie success alongside one another.  

PURLWISE

Carly knew that wearing the flirty sundress and kicky stiletto heels in order to help boost Gram’s knitting club profits at the craft bazaar was a tad audacious but she hoped the club’s proceeds would outweigh the malicious canard or two customers might whisper about her behind the stacks of oven mitts and baby afghans.

Gram and her cronies were slightly shaken by Carly’s attire but once the cashbox began to overflow, they warmed up to her right quick, complimenting her pursuit of higher education and quizzing her business acumen.

However, the moment Pete Calhoun showed up, with his penetrating gaze, easy smile, and country charm, Carly’s confidence unraveled like half price yarn. Not to worry, though, because the Knit-N-Purl Club saved the day by clearing a multitude of colorful doilies off the settee so the young folk could sit and chat a spell – and, perchance, knit their hearts together. 

150 words / Applying For Overacheiver

Written for Jeff Hollar's Monday Mixer. Prompt words in bold.