She contemplated her sisters as they gazed at odd couples attending the party – Ron and Hermoine; Bella and Edward; Piggy and Kermit.
“It was happenstance that they met,” said Coincidence.
“You know what transpired after that was destiny,” said Fate.
“And it’s phenomenal we’re even having this discussion,” said Miracle. 
The ocean-liner featured a first-class, saltwater swimming pool, heated via nearby boilers.
Knowing women may not be welcome to dive in, she purchased the latest swimming costume anyway.
But April 14th came all too soon. Sadly, only men, poor women and children took the saltwater plunge.
None wore swimming suits.
Nothing could hide it. Not her perfect page-boy or her expensive dresses. My friend said the roof of her mouth was missing. That’s why she drooled all over herself. That’s why we couldn’t understand anything she said.
Not that she talked to us.
But we didn’t talk to her either.
“You’re stealing the old clock?”
“Quiet, or I’ll have you written out faster than you can say Helen Corning.”
“What kind of chum are you?”
“One who doesn’t need a namby-pamby whiner hampering my mystery-solving abilities!”
“Ahhhhh, you’re the 1930’s sassy Nancy, NOT 1959’s fancy Nancy! SO glad to meet you!”
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Post Note: NaBloPoMo posts a daily prompt to ignite bloggers’ imaginations. I decided to respond to today’s prompt – “Which character would you most like to meet?” by working it into my 50-word piece of fiction.
N.D. ~ 1930
Note: Penny, over at WIDELY UNREAD, introduced an interesting writing exercise from 3 A.M. EPIPHANY that challenges writers to create a scene using imperative commands. Penny’s example is 500 words as suggested by author Brian Kitely. I decided to accept this challenge today using the 50-word limit! Let’s see how this works.
Morning Glory
Meet Chelsea at the parlor on Main. Watch Raul open new needles and check latex gloves for pinholes.
Don’t be brave; let Chelsea go first.
Breathe; the stings WILL stop.
Admire Raul’s handiwork, hidden so Mom won’t see.
Dream that night of spreading vines.
Awaken to a nightmare come true.
The two giggled as they struggled to slip pajamas onto uncooperative 18-inch dolls. Joy reigned until both grabbed for the flannel mini-robe.
“It’s mine!”
“No! Gramma gave it to me.”
Tears.
“They usually play well together.” The care-giver observed.
“Sisters?” asked her new assistant.
“Mother and daughter. Eighty-eight and sixty-nine.”
Writing My Life 