Ok, this was in imitation of Charles Dickens.  To anyone who has read A Tale of Two Cities, don’t worry, I don’t repeat as much as him.  And it’s really short.

          'Twas the year of two thousand plus one, in a dreary winter that pressed in on all sides, clouds looming, blanketing the chilled land in darkness.  A young girl, on the verge of womanhood, with hair of medium length mahogany that spilled across the pillows like folds of silk and a complexion of a ripening peach, was just waking near the turbid, gray waters of the Pacific.  As she shook off the last vestiges of Sleep, the dark, black cold seeped through the windows, depressing and discouraging wakefulness.  Sleep called to the girl; calling in a honeyed voice, promising wild fantasies and strange lands in the corners of its native world; calling in a wheedling tone, denoting the warmth of the bed, the softness of the bedding, and the innocence found in Sleep’s arms.  The girl stirred again, refusing the temptations for Day, a golden place waiting to be filled with events and happenings, craving to be spent in activity, and to revel in the laughter of many. The girl embraced Day and went to seek the light of morning.