First is about a blogger, Mrs. G, who is a middle-aged author who entertains fantasies about Johnny Depp. She accidentally posted just a title on her blog recently, with no text. Here is what I imagined was the cause:
Mrs. G, wearing a seductive terrycloth dressing gown, made her
way to the computer. She began to type; first quietly, gently, then
with growing passion and abandon.
Johnny eyed her from the darkness of the sofa. He rose, earring glinting in the light of the monitor. Walking towards her, he was a graceful as a cat.
Mrs. G had gotten no further than the title of the post, when he could stand it no more, and whisked her into his arms with a hungry growl, and his elbow hit the "Publish" button.
Her bathrobe was tossed over the computer moments later, so the pair never knew.
Second, another blogger named Ashley gave me a set of details to choose from (fantasy boyfriends, occupations, cars, locations, and so on). Here's hers:
It was high noon as Ashley and her pea--green Nova pulled up in front of the county courthouse that day. Austin was hot, and so was she. “Today! Today I will get justice for MaryBeth and her family!” she repeated as she gathered her files, ready to assume her Advocate Ashley persona.
No sooner did she step into the searing Texas sun than did she raise her eyebrows at the vintage Mustang that screeched to a halt behind her car. “Ma’am?” a husky voice called. A voice weathered like a good pair of boots, with a faint hint of single-malt scotch in the rasp of it. “I do believe your car is on fire.”
She, horrified, gaped attractively at her now-engulfed-in-flames Nova. “Oh, fer Pete’s sake…” her accent intensified in her moment of shock.
The man unfolded his lanky frame from his seat, and leapt into action, rumbling past her like a tall, attractive tank. He reached his brawny arms into the conflagration and gathered her baskets of crafting supplies, and snagging her purse from the floor of the back seat. “I don’t figure y’all would want your gorgeous crafts to go up with this ol’ Nova.” He faced her, trying to free a sooty hand, “Adam, ma’am. Adam Levine. I think we’d better call the fire department. And in the meantime, why don’t you come on and sit with me in my car? I have some time before I have to catch my flight over to Kansas City for my VolunteerAmerica conference.”
The next thing she knew, she was being tucked into the black leather bucket seat of a Mustang that smelled like dust, band aids, and sexy man.
Johnny eyed her from the darkness of the sofa. He rose, earring glinting in the light of the monitor. Walking towards her, he was a graceful as a cat.
Mrs. G had gotten no further than the title of the post, when he could stand it no more, and whisked her into his arms with a hungry growl, and his elbow hit the "Publish" button.
Her bathrobe was tossed over the computer moments later, so the pair never knew.
Second, another blogger named Ashley gave me a set of details to choose from (fantasy boyfriends, occupations, cars, locations, and so on). Here's hers:
It was high noon as Ashley and her pea--green Nova pulled up in front of the county courthouse that day. Austin was hot, and so was she. “Today! Today I will get justice for MaryBeth and her family!” she repeated as she gathered her files, ready to assume her Advocate Ashley persona.
No sooner did she step into the searing Texas sun than did she raise her eyebrows at the vintage Mustang that screeched to a halt behind her car. “Ma’am?” a husky voice called. A voice weathered like a good pair of boots, with a faint hint of single-malt scotch in the rasp of it. “I do believe your car is on fire.”
She, horrified, gaped attractively at her now-engulfed-in-flames Nova. “Oh, fer Pete’s sake…” her accent intensified in her moment of shock.
The man unfolded his lanky frame from his seat, and leapt into action, rumbling past her like a tall, attractive tank. He reached his brawny arms into the conflagration and gathered her baskets of crafting supplies, and snagging her purse from the floor of the back seat. “I don’t figure y’all would want your gorgeous crafts to go up with this ol’ Nova.” He faced her, trying to free a sooty hand, “Adam, ma’am. Adam Levine. I think we’d better call the fire department. And in the meantime, why don’t you come on and sit with me in my car? I have some time before I have to catch my flight over to Kansas City for my VolunteerAmerica conference.”
The next thing she knew, she was being tucked into the black leather bucket seat of a Mustang that smelled like dust, band aids, and sexy man.
No comments:
Post a Comment