This is a very short story. I'm thinking like ten short chapters all through Carly's POV. I consider it as a tiny little something to make the days go faster and my pent up energy to escape. I'm having so much word flow right ow that I can't even write. How oddly reversed is that?!
A Brief Prologue
Ok. So, I know what you're thinking. "It was a great book, Carly, but it was fictional!"
Well, dear Reader, that isn't exactly true. Pride and Prejudice is in fact a great book; one of my favorites. I've seen the movies (Hello Colin Firth); I've followed the modern versions (Colin Firth? You're here again?); I even bothered to sit through the butchered tale as performed by my old high school drama department; and all the while there was one truth universally acknowledged: Darcy is hot! (Colin, you totally do him justice!)
I'd always loved his brooding dark temperament (comparable to the sexy Harry Potter), his financial stability, and, most of all, his knight-in-shining-armor rescue of the fair Elizabeth's family name. Darcy is amazing. The perfect man. I always had this theory that Jane Austen dissected all of her favorite qualities in men and saved them all for Darcy. He's faulted, and he's so perfect at the same time.
If you asked any girl on a New York street if they'd take a Darcy, I'd bet my left arm they'd all say yes. He's the epitome of what a girl wants, what she can't resist.
Unfortunately for Darcy, and men like him everywhere, he is the perfect man (here's the key) in disguise. At first, you'd never even know he was a Darcy. At first, all Darcy's are just plain old ass holes because they haven't had a chance to show the world (predominately, their leading-Lizzy) how great they are. How truly Darcy they are.
That was true of Danny. Danny was an egocentric, nihilist with a God-complex, and, unfortunately… my boss (or at least one of them). He was an ass-hole. A Prick. A thumb-sucking, but sadly orphaned, Mama's boy with chicken-scratch handwriting and horrible filing techniques. But Danny also just happened to secretly be (way, way underneath all that other crap) a Darcy.
Which brings me to my (freakishly round-about) point: Pride and Prejudice is a great book and, with me- Carly Spence- as testament, hardly deserving of the word "fictional." And so, dear Reader, I bring you the tale of (the amazing) Carly and her Darcy… I mean Danny. (Woops. I should really stop doing that.)