And so...it begins!
The A-Z Challenge! Unless you've been curled up under a mountain, breathing fire and guarding stolen treasure, you know that today is not only a day during which people everywhere get to play mean-spirited and often hilarious pranks on people - it's also the start of the A-Z Challenge. And if by some bizarre change you HAVE been curled up under a mountain, breathing fire and guarding stolen treasure, go HERE and find out what you've been missing :D
I'm doing something a bit different with my A-Z. I'm going to write a story, ongoing, with each chapter being a word from the days letter. I claim no great works of literature, just good old fashioned what's-going-to-happen-next fun! Or mayhem. Or terror. Depending on my mood for the day. Enough rambling! On with the SHOW!
Imogene Ipswich knew she was different. She knew she was a mix of several different things. For example, her father had been a scientist, or so she'd been told. Her mother? A burlesque dancer, but who was she to judge? Her father abandoned her and her mother when Imogene was three. She didn't know him. Didn't want to. And her mother had done everything she could to provide a decent living for them.
That was before her mother ran off with the sword swallower at the local circus. No joke. A sword swallower. Imogene came home from her job at the Wing Ranch one afternoon to a hastily scribbled note on the dining room table and an envelope with $5,000. "Here's enough for a few month's rent," her mother wrote. "I love you Emmy," the nickname made her cringe, "but life is short!"
That was it. Nothing more. Fine. Who cares? Imogene didn't. She was just fine being alone, working seven days a week for minimum wage and tips from the lewd businessmen who worked at city hall. She hated them, but they tipped well, especially if she batted her eyes and acted like a complete brainless moron.
Brainless moron she was not. But that will have to wait because at the present moment, Imogene is slumped against the wall, facing her front door. She watching in detached fascination as her own blood seeps through a gunshot wound in her stomach. The last thoughts she thinks before the door bursts open (again) is, "Why on earth did those guys shoot me?", "What were they looking for?", and "Why am I not dead?"