The story continues

Ok, so a blogger has taken up the gauntlet in my little writing piece... so I shall continue it below. Notice that nowhere will I mention dragons, I am sorry to say.
Today I head North for grilling, drinmking, and gaming. Happy Memorial day to everyone!

The Soon-to-Be Titled Story as it Stands

Bridget had three sisters, but you'd never know it by looking at her. She seemed a mess from afar, and when you zoomed in close, you could see the wheels were about to fly right off of that train. It was no fault of her own, however. She had been unceremoniously dropped right into the middle of things, her husband of three years deciding that what he needed more then a loving, committed relationship was an underage girl with an "ass that wouldn't quit" and a sports car that no matter how fast it was driven would never get him back to the youth he was now trying to emulate.

The middle of things was where she'd started, so she should have been comfortable enough in the position. Her entry into the world had occurred during the middle of her mother's pregnancy, rather than towards the more traditional end, causing no end of bother. She'd grown up right smack in the middle of Indiana, a midwestern girl in a middle-class family that had little enough time for its middle child. Her older sisters, twins of a flamboyantly similar nature, kept themselves to themselves, and her younger sister was too much of a tomboy to pal around with Bridget.

Her real trouble, it seemed, was with the number three.

Nothing good ever came of that number, and she resisted the urge to spit as she closed her eyes and saw it there, a giant number three seared deep in her unconcious. Her hatred had gone way past obsession and landed deep in disorder territory.

Last week, the women's group had thrown their annual barn dance and charity auction at the Miller farm in Stuartville. Mary had convinced her that she needed to take part in the bacholerette auction. A bachelorette auction! Who does these things anymore? And with her entry, wouldn't it be more of a yard sale - showing used goods going for a low price.

Still, she played the socialite role, put on a smiling face, and a dress that helped cover some of her softer exterior, and stood in line waiting her chance to strut the catwalk - a piece of cattle being eyed by the eyes of fat, disgusting butchers.

As she waited, Nan came over, that smile of hers trying to cover the vacancy that existed behind her eyes. As she whispered some cooing remarks about how radiant Bridget looked, she pinned a number to the front of her dress.

That number was three.

Ok, I had an idea where to go with this, but I want to give the next person something to work with so I'm stopping here. I'll be excited to see what someone does with this setup.

As I had mentioned before, it's not really a "paragraph per writer" type of exercise, and you can see I took that to the extreme. Hoever, I feel that I needed the above to get the story advanced. Again, any writer can write as little or as much for their turn. Though a paragraph will be the minimum.