Thursday, August 23, 2012

Frances and Joni outtake #4

Another snippet from the continuing saga of Frankie and Joni. Frankie's thoughts turn to Nick and other things as she spends her first night in captivity. Up a tree. Dont ask....

Frances shook her head, peering into the semi-gloom at the roughly hewn ceiling she could just make out. This would be doing Nick’s head in too. This lying around. He was like her - a doer. Not in the same way, sure, but in attitude, absolutely.
Nick was more physically capable. The kind of guy who could build a shelter, ride a horse, shear a sheep, kill a beast, slay a dragon, navigate by the stars and no doubt sail the seven seas.
A man who was good with his hands.
And a nice bloody change from let’s-get-a-man-in-to-do-it Edward. Cheating-embezzling-bastard Edward.
Soon-to-be-divorced Edward
Of course he was also very good with other parts of his anatomy. The way he could make her clothes fall off with one look and how he consistently found just the right spot without the need for a GPS tracking device, was really quite amazing.
Frances stared at the ceiling and smiled. Even now memories of their exploits in bed last night were causing her head to spin. She shut her eyes. The man’s adventurous spirit and rough, tilling-the-land hands were going to give her enough fantasies to last several lifetimes.
Who knew sex could be that good?
Her eyes fluttered open. A lovely floaty feeling invaded her bones and she shut them again on a sigh and giggled.
Yes, giggled.
Her eyes flew open. Had she actually giggled?
What the hell? Frances didn’t giggle. Grown women did not giggle. Little girls with Shirley Temple curls giggled.
The thought was absurdly funny and she giggled again.
“You okay?”
Zeke’s sleepy voice wafted through the screen door and brought her back to reality. “Sure,” she said, even though she knew she wasn’t.
But a weird drifty feeling was swirling inside her and it seemed to make the not being okay, somehow okay. Make the urgency of getting out of here suddenly not such a crashing priority. But in the morning she was going to show Mr Shepherd of the Apocalypse. She was going to give that man, Brian – Master Brian - a piece of her mind.
Frances rolled on her side to stop the room from spinning. The low flame of the lantern twisted before her multiplying in a kaleidoscope pattern. Brian’s head flickered in the centre of each one like a disembodied ghost.   
She muffled another giggle. Brian....
Seriously, who would associate anything apocalyptic with the name Brian?
Brian conjured images of a slightly myopic accountant. Nothing remotely end-of-the-world-ish about Brian.
Zoran. Now that was a world-is-nigh name.
Or Lucifer.
Or Darth. Come to the dark side, Frances.
Frances stifled another giggle.
These were names honed from the fiery depths of an apocalyptic dawn. Seriously, if you were going to go to the trouble of coming up with such a ridiculous name – Lambs of the Apocalypse – why on earth wouldn’t you, as leader, change your own name accordingly?
What was one more crazy fantasy in this bizarre alternate world they all seemed to be living in?
Master Zoran, Shepherd of the Apocalypse.
Now, that said don’t fuck with me. Bow down before me or perish in the everlasting fires of damnation!
That was hail and brimstone.
Frances shook her head. Master Brian could do with a good business coach.

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