Short Stories: Right Size, Right Price

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If you were told to jump off of a bridge would you?

Perhaps it would depend on who was doing the asking. Our heroine has spunk and a sense of humor, however suffers from an extreme case of inappropriate clothing. When things take a turn from dangerous to worse what will she do when fantasy becomes reality? Warning: May include hot leather clad men, singing and demons.

Who is this Jen Wylie?

Jennifer Wylie was born and raised in Ontario, Canada. In a cosmic twist of fate she dislikes the snow and cold. Before settling down to raise a family, she attained a BA from Queens University and worked in retail and sales. Thanks to her mother she acquired a love of books at an early age and began writing in public school. She constantly has stories floating around in her head, and finds it amazing most people don’t. Jennifer writes various forms of fantasy, both novels and short stories. Sweet light is her debut novel.

Excerpt:

“Jump.” 

My mother’s voice popped into my head; “Would you jump off a bridge if so-and-so asked you too?” 

I would of course reward her with my classic eye roll and a dragged out, “M-o-o-o-m!” 

But there I stood on a bridge being asked to jump. Well, more like told to jump. The knife poking, none too gently, into my lower back clearly indicated the asking part wasn’t really applicable. 

I pursed my lips together tightly, as a very childish, Don’t wanna, threatened to escape them. 

Being a smart ass right now probably wouldn’t make my situation any better. My cheek still stung from the backhanded slap Mr. So-and-so had given me when we’d first met, as he tried to pick me up on my way home from Avery’s Bar. He hadn’t appreciated my witty negative comment then, and I doubt he’d like one now. 

“I told you to jump.” His voice growled low in my ear as the knife pushed harder against the center of my back. He leaned into me from behind and I shivered at his closeness to me. 

His sanity level couldn’t be very high. What a piece of work, this slimeball. I decided Slimeball would be the perfect name for him. His dark greasy hair, smelly clothes and the filthy hands he had used to grab me off the street, and drag me up here. 

“Why?” I suddenly asked, staring down into the darkness below the bridge. It was an old abandoned railway bridge, not even overly high. The likelihood of me splattering to my death wasn’t very large. I’d probably just end up breaking a whole lot of bones. 

I didn’t get why he wanted me to do this. Other than smacking me around a little, and some gentle prodding with the large nasty knife, he hadn’t tried anything with me. I’d expected to be dragged off and raped, or murdered, or at least robbed, but not told to jump off a little bridge. 

Slimeball didn’t answer my question; he just poked me with the knife again. “Jump.”