SEFPC

Well, I did it.

 

I actually spent most of last night revamping the entire first 500 words of OHN  (it had to happen sometime).  But then I looked over some of the other entries and realized the ones that held my attention had treated it not as a "first 500 words" contest but an actual "first page" contest and broken off their story at a moment of high(er) tension instead of just running to the end of their tether.  I checked those wordcounts and they were closer to 300. 

 

So I went with my gut (and something similar to Christy's suggestion) and cut my own off after about 300 words at a good breaking point.  (From there she's just going outside and observing the setting until she runs into Old Teresa, which is an interesting exchange but doesn't have a good break until around the 700-word mark.)

 

Here it is, FWIW:

 

From One Highland Night (c) 2007

 

Today was supposed to be her wedding day. 

 

Elizabeth Martin should have been standing in a little church back home in Kentucky, surrounded by friends and family.  Instead, she stood in the lobby of the Loch Awe hotel, a massive granite structure in the Baronial style nestled quaintly in the Scottish highlands.  The person looking back at her was not her husband-to-be but an overly perky desk clerk who apparently didn't know the difference between polite chatter and prying.

 

If I am forced to answer one more personal question from a nosy Scot—especially that question—I will find the nearest haggis and cram it down their throat.  Sideways.

 

Outwardly, she forced a smile and accepted the brochure the clerk handed across the counter.  "No, I don't have 'a fine braw laddie' to go out on the loch with.  I'm by myself."

 

She was not going to cry.

 

The clerk shook her head, setting short, tight black curls to bouncing, and clucked her tongue.  "Ah, now that's a shame.  Pretty lass like yourself with your great dark eyes...  Did ye no' go and pick some St. John's wort last night?" 

 

Her incomprehension must have shown on her face, for the plump-cheeked young woman leaned forward over the counter and whispered conspiratorially.

 

"They say it will tell if you're to be married in the comin' year—if the flowers dinna wilt.  It's best to do it on Midsummer's Eve, ye ken.  But I'm sure it'd still work if ye tried tonight."

 

"Thanks, I'll keep an eye out for some," she lied as she turned to go. 

 

Married this year?  Not likely.  She didn't need folk tales to tell her that was not going to happen.  Doug had done so quite effectively three months ago, when she caught him making out with her best friend. 

 

She was absolutely not going to cry.

 

----

 

*Interesting side note: I was actually really getting into revamping this thing.  It gives me hope and renewed encouragement to get into rewrites (first round of many, no doubt) soon.