Written Fireside is a round robin style written, short story feature based on the campfire game where one person starts a story then passes it on to the next person gathered by the fire to continue.

For each story I write part 1, then each participating author (a Fire Writer) adds a part in turn.

Sep 4, 2013

Written Fireside For Clara - Part 7

Mark stood in the doorway, his smile broad, holding a bouquet of lilies.  Her eyes narrowed.  When he’d walked by her car he- 
No, that couldn't be.  She’d hidden her car in the garage and then she locked the door so- “You can’t be here.”
The flowers in his hand transformed into a long wicked blade, his smile became a sneer, “You should’ve run RaRa.” 
“Mark no.”
Clara stumbled back, fell hard and burst awake.  She sat up, heart pounding.  Her gaze darted around the cheap hotel room clear in the daylight that crept in through thin curtains.  After a moment, her breathing slowed.   
Just a bad dream. 
Emotionally hung over, she crawled out of bed.  Clad only in her slip she shivered although the room was warm.  As Clara pulled on her skirt events of previous night flashed through her mind. 
The nightmare had followed them so closely that reality terrified her only slightly less.  Her fingers found the key in her pocket and curled around it until the edges dug into her palm.  A man had driven up and rattled the door trying to get in.  Uncertain who was friend or foe; she grabbed the bundle and ran out the back door in a panic. 
Down the road, she caught a ride from an old man in a rusted farm truck.  No one could possibly know where she was now.  It should be safe to- 
A knock sounded at the door and she almost jumped out of her skin. 
“Miss Ashburn?”
It took two attempts to clear her throat before she could answer, “Yes.”
“It’s past check out.  I need to clean the room.”
“Oh, sorry, I’ll be out in a minute.”
Quickly she buttoned on her pale blue shirt then pulled the loose knit black sweater over her head.  As she tried to finger comb her wild short bob of curls another knock sounded on the door, louder, impatient. 
Clara thrust bare feet into her sandals then, while shoving her nylons into her purse, opened the door.  Shock rooted her in place for several seconds then she slammed the door shut, turned the deadbolt.  The maid stomped away as she peeked out of the window.    
Maybe I’m dreaming again.  Clara pinched herself hard and winced in pain, “Damn.”

Derek still stood beside an old Ford only yards away.  

To be continued 
Part 8 by Carmel Harrington

Check out her debut release available now!

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