As is often the case in fairy tales, we sometimes find ourselves awakening from a long sleep. Such is the case here, and just in time for the Midsummer Night’s Dream short story contest.
So, without any more ado about such a little nothing…
Alone on the side of the road, Dan turned the key again, knowing that the car wouldn’t start this time either. No sound from the engine disturbed the crickets’ humming. “So much for the scenic route.” He retrieved a notebook from the seat, and began scribbling under the full moon. Shortly, he scratched out several lines as if they had sabotaged his vehicle, and started a new page muttering “Sounds like a stupid card!”.
The methodical abuse of the notepad was interrupted by a whistle carried on the breeze. Terrified and delighted to not be alone, Dan looked around abruptly. A light approached from the distance, and deep rumble came with it, until a motorcycle stopped next to the incapacitated car. The woman riding it turned to look at him as she turned off the engine, sending her ponytail dancing.
“Enjoying the stars?” she grinned.
“Car’s just dead.” Dan answered, not amused.
“Well, why don’t I take a look?” Without waiting for an answer, she slid off of the machine. Dan unconsciously stepped back from the leather clad stranger. As she moved, he could see both a large knife and a hammer on her belt, and the muscles in her arms rippled as she removed her gloves.
“You know, if it’s any inconvenience, I can just wait till morning…” even his voice started to hide as she stepped past him.
The woman raised the hood of the car effortlessly, and was hidden from Dan’s view. Feeling useless, he simply stood still. He heard whispering near the engine that sounded almost like singing. When the air rang with the sound of metal being beaten, his indignation overcame his timidity, and he strode angrily forward. As he neared the woman, index finger pointed, the car engine started smoothly.
“Better than new.” the strange woman said with satisfaction as she slammed the hood.
Dan’s mouth dropped open as the anger drained away. “How did…uh…Thank you!”
As she settled the hammer back onto her belt, she stepped toward the motorcycle. “On that other thing, you’re trying too hard, Slick.”
“What are you talking about? Who are you?” he asked, bewildered.
“Called Bree, or some prefer Bridgit.” The motorcycle started loudly. As she drove away into the night, she called back. “No words as powerful as true ones, and no verse as beautiful as real love. Write that down, and it’ll be right. Now, get to it!”.