Just a little one!
Sunday night yet again. Brain somewhat fried these days. Everything I do, whenever I pay attention to my thoughts, they are dwelling on what I’m writing. I’ve taken to putting in random inserts. You guys are all advising me to get the words out, that I can later try and make sense of them. Well, when the one thing does not flow, but the other will, and does not necessarily fit with what I’m currently writing, I put in a random insert. And it’s working. The words are just there, and before I know it, another 500 words are down in black and white.
Today I’ve so far written just over 2000 words, and when I get back from filling up both the car and my stomach, I’ll probably write some more before I call it quits and head off to bed, ready to start yet another work week and all that entails.
To that effect, another snippet. As you know, I love old cars. And of course, my hero does too, as did my dude. Can’t have a man that does not feel about old cars the way I do. What I’m describing here is the chick’s first ride in her dream car – a 68 Mustang, lovingly restored by the hero who, so far, has had no blackening. But I’m getting there 😉
If you think what I’ve written is corny, or stupid, tell me. If you think it describes the emotions relatively well but could do more, tell me. I don’t know if I want to know should you think it complete crap, but i suppose, if it is that, then I have to bear that as well.
Wishing you a lovely Sunday, and a brilliant Monday!
Morgan’s excitement is infectious. Henry’s eyes lights up with it too, and he hands her the keys. Together they go out into the sunshine. Closing her door behind them, Morgan looks towards Rose, standing in her driveway, paintwork gleaming in the sunshine, nose pointed towards the open road. It looks as if the car is calling her. “Come to me Morgan. Feel the wind on your face, hear the roar of my engine. Let my seats enfold you, keep you safe.”
Almost reverently, Morgan approaches the car standing there waiting for her. Slowly her hand extends to the door handle, opens it. Inhales the smell coming from the interior. Sun warmed leather, Henry’s faint sandalwood, a tinge of exhaust fume – all geared to bring her under the spell of Rose. She sits down, puts her hands on the steering wheel. Touches the dashboard, the gear lever, letting the car speak to her. Yes, crazy. But if you love cars, they DO speak to you. They tell you their stories in revolutions per minute, they let you know what’s happening by the change of the engine noise, by the sound of the tyres on the tarmac. They speak of the years they’ve been driving around, on all roads, in all weathers. They want you to join with them in the freedom, the ecstasy of playing with all the horses beneath the bonnet. Driving one of these babies is nothing less than a religious experience. At least, to Morgan, that’s what it felt like. The reverence with which she initially approached Rose was repeated in the turning of the key. The first roar of V8 sent tingles up her spine. She felt the vibrations the motor was sending through the car, through her body. “This is almost better than an orgasm!” she thought to herself.
“It is?” Henry asks with a smile in his voice.