Thread: Jolie's Journal (Comments Welcome) [First Post Has Status]

RE Jolie's Journal of Endearing Excuses Comments Welcome, but Not Required I am reasonably grammatical when I write emphasis on the word reasonably. But my ability to actually write decent fiction is much more marginal. This means when I re-read something I've recently written, I cringe. Example, Suzy Anne Yokely squatted in the field outside the Flying J Truckstop. Six months out of Harlan County, Kentucky, she'd followed the old Indian Fort mountain trails all the way into Ohio. From there, she'd hitched her way across country, mainly with truckers who weren't adverse to a 19 year old girl's company, until she hit the outer Chicago area. She'd ended up laying out the last trucker with a tire iron and fed up with not having any cash, she planned to hit the main truckstop cash register around 200 a.m. when most of the truckers were asleep and there wasn't much incidental traffic. It was a bit crazy, but she'd get a hell of a lot more money from a good sized operation like this than some chicken shit 7-11. Her plan was simple. Go in with her sawed off loaded with rock salt. If she had to shoot, it would knock whatever asshole was acting up on his or her ass. If necessary, she'd pull her .38 snub out of her belt and get real. Some asshole had apparently abandoned a bad-ass Indian Chief Classic out front of the main entrance. At least it has been sitting there since early in afternoon. She'd casually checked it out and it looked like someone had done a bad job of hot wiring it and then decided to leave it here. Suzy planned to use that motorcycle as her getaway vehicle when she walked out of the truck stop with her cash. Later, she'd circle back and pick up her tent and other gear. She glanced up at the sky, watching as clouds rolled over a Harvest moon. It was time. Standing up, the five nine inch girl stood up. She wore black calf-high boots with four inch spiked heels that made her even taller and skin tight, black leggings that outlined a perfect set of legs and allowed one to see just the bottom of her perfect ass. Her top was belted tightly at her narrow waist and extended down to just barely cover the V between her legs. Her breasts, very firm and a large d-cup, were tightly cupped by the faded Iron Maiden concert t-shirt she wore. Her hair, silky and black, went all the way to her waist, and her light, hazel eyes were outlined with dark eye makeup. Her skin was pale, her expression grim. Shit! she said outloud. No fucking way am I getting away with this. With those words, she opened the breach of her 10 guage and loaded in two rock salt loaded shells. Then she pulled a latex death skull mask from her bag, pulled it on over hear head and walked across the pavement to the entrance of the Flying J. Glancing to the left, she saw the Chief was still there ready to carry her ass out of here. Opening the door, she stepped in and pointed the shotgun at the tall, skinny kid manning the register. Give me your fucking money! Was there an echo here? She could have sworn .... Fuck! A man who looked not much older than her own nineteen years was pointing his gun at the same kid. Dude, She said in her slow as molasses Kentucky drawl. Fucking uncool. I've been planning this heist for months, filed permits with the city and everything. She kept her shot gun pointed at the skinny kid who looked like he'd peed his pants. But she was holding the shot gun with one hand now, because the other was creeping down to her belt where she kept her snub nose, the same snub ones she'd used to put a bullet in Danny Parker's head, the asshole who'd raped and traumatized her little sister Bobbie Anne. All four of her sisters had the middle name Anne after their mother. Her three bothers had the middle name Jared after their dad. Hey, no one ever said her parents had every screw tightened down. They'd mainly been good at fucking and cooking meth. Which might explain why her mom was buried in the town's indigent cemetery and her dad was doing three consecutive life terms in Kentucky's Little Sandy Correctional Complex. Unrealistic. Badly written. On par with almost any scene found in a direct to video, B grade, car-chase and explosion action flick. Now I do want to keep the meet cute concept, but almost everything else needs to be changed. So I'm thinking Air Force One. Dirty Bombs. And a cute boy and girl terrorist. They meet. Hey! I'm bombing Air Force One! Buzz out of here. She says with a sexy wriggle of her belly-dancing toned Southern Egyptian hips. The boy's eyes widen in recognition. He then adjusts his intricately fashioned you're-going-to-like-the-way-you-feel-hair-rug-for-balding-terrorists explosive contraption, gives a manly thrust of his own hips, and says, Didn't we go to the same high school? Not over the top enough? Maybe not.