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Xathax
09-26-2006, 07:04 AM
100-500 words again. You must use TWO of the following lines, anywhere you wish:

- The answer was correct, but there was a price to pay anyway. Some questions are not that simple.

- By the name, I assumed she was Italian.

- Underneath the streetlight's glowing cone, Conlan's silhouette became the target of everyone's eyes.

- Once, this river ran red with blood. Those were the good old days.

- This was the thirty-sixth day Lisa has spent at her computer and now the 40 watt light bulbs were giving way before her.

- Don't put that there! Do you have any idea what that is!?

- He died. She died. They died. Damn it, even SHE died.

- A kind of light-hearted attitude for something like that could get you killed

Bonus points for using all of them (or at least almost all of them).

persiphone_hellecat
09-26-2006, 07:47 AM
OK - what do I get for using ALL the sentences and exactly ALL 500 words? Rep points anyone?? Here goes...

By name, I assumed she was Italian. Conlan Sarducci was one of those of girls people were just naturally attracted to. As she walked the streets at night, eking out a modest living, as most streetwalkers do, Conlan was the one they wanted. Underneath the streetlight's glowing cone, Conlan's silhouette became the target of everyone's eyes. As I approached, she coyly moved away. She was doing it with me – that sexual tango, the lovers’ dance. She walked onto the Ponte Fabricioi, pausing long enough to make sure I was following. I was. She knew it. I walked up behind her, pressing my nose into her hair and taking in her perfume. Marinara. My favorite. I whispered softly into her ear. “Once, this river ran red with blood. Those were the good old days.” She sighed softly. “Yes,” she said. “This is true, but a kind of light-hearted attitude for something like that could get you killed.” I chuckled. “I scoff at danger, my little eggplant.” I turned her towards me, grabbing her hair and pulling her lips close enough for mine to envelop them.

She moaned softly. I was making good progress. “Shall we go somewhere more … private?” She asked, taunting me with her firm breasts and rounded hips. Italian women can be such sluts sometimes. I managed a reply. “The alley behind the Italian restaurant on Via dei Coronari—near Ponte Sisto—ten minutes. She smiled and nodded. I was the one about to have a coronary. After she walked away, I realized what a dolt I was. The Italian restaurant on Via dei Coranari? There must have been hundreds. OK—tens.

But sometimes I have the luck of the Irish. She found the right alley and she was waiting there for me. I took 20,000 lire out of my wallet and cursed. Euros, Sam, Euros! She smiled and took it. “I know a bank where I will get a fair exchange.” She stuffed the money into her ample bosom and leaned against the wall, hiking up her skirt. Groaning, I unzipped and went in for the prize. “Don't put that there! Do you have any idea what that is!?” I had a pretty good idea. Let’s just say my Smith and Wesson was doing better than I was. I backed up, blushing as I removed it. Suddenly, a shot rang out and my beautiful Conlan fell to the ground dead. A second shot rang …………

This was the thirty-sixth day Lisa has spent at her computer and now the 40 watt light bulbs were giving way before her. Sitting in the dark, she stared at her screen, cursing to herself. “He died. She died. They died. Damn it, even SHE died.” What kind of a novelist kills all her characters off in the first chapter? The answer was correct, but there was a price to pay anyway. Some questions are not that simple. Sighing, she finished her Pepsi and left. Writing just wasn’t working out to her.

Rolling Thunder
09-26-2006, 07:51 AM
XathaX?

Are you trying to get me banned?

Must....resist....playing.....this wicked.....game.........

persiphone_hellecat
09-26-2006, 07:53 AM
Hey if I can manage to fly just under the radar, you can, too.

Rolling Thunder
09-26-2006, 08:37 AM
“Uh, Miss . . . ?”
“Lentini,” she replied, “Carla Lentini”
By the name, I assumed she was Italian. I typed her name into the computer to make sure the warranty was registered properly.
“You sure you know how to use that thing?” I asked.
“Of course I do! I’m not stupid!”
“Don't put that there! Do you have any idea what that is!?” I yelled, snatching the box she had laid precariously on the counter while she rummaged through her purse. “A kind of light-hearted attitude for something like that could get you killed!”
She rolled her eyes at me and threw the credit card on the counter. “Just ring me up.”
I knew the Acme 69 speed plutonium powered love wand was for professional use only but I sold it to her anyway. I handed over the bag and thought I probably should warn her about the puree setting.
Unfortunately, underneath the streetlight's glowing cone, Conlan's silhouette became the target of everyone's eyes, including my own. I was hungry and a hot dog would taste good right now. I turned my attention back from the passing cart to mention the accessories that were on sale, but she was gone.
“Hey, Dick? Could you come here for a minute?”
I walked into the back room. This was the thirty-sixth day Lisa has spent at her computer and now the 40 watt light bulbs were giving way before her. Taking inventory was a living hell for her; especially given the fact she was a nun.
“What’s up?” I said.
“You better pull those Acme 69’s off the shelf. They’re being recalled by Homeland Security. Radiation leaks.”
“Dammit, I thought they were glowing. It should have dawned on me earlier that model didn’t come with a built-in nightlight,” I gulped.
Over the next few days I tried calling every customer I had sold the 69 to.
He died. She died. They died. Damn it, even SHE died.
Next time, I’ll just stock the regular Slim Jim.

Vincent
09-26-2006, 10:26 AM
With the languid grace of a well practised move she extended her arm. I learned in, fingers around her wrist, lifting the back of her leather-gloved hand to meet my lips. The corner of her mouth rose in a coy smile as I straightened. Her eyes were hidden below the shadow of her hat, but I could imagine them following me, almost burning with restrained desire. “A pleasure to meet you. Our host didn’t warn me to be on the lookout for someone so beautiful.” My gaze drifted over her full form “Or so highly decorated.”

“The pleasure is all mine, sir,” she said, her voice carrying a Lauren Bacall quality- husky, sultry. “But don’t let the adornments distract you. They only allude to certain more tangible… inner qualities.”

I couldn’t keep the smirk from my face. “Oh, really?” I took a step closer. She didn’t pull back. “We’ll have to discuss them in depth some time.”

“No doubt we will,” she said, playfulness colouring her voice. “But first, perhaps we should be properly introduced. Put the formalities behind us. I wouldn’t want to be accused of being unrefined.”

“I couldn’t imagine anyone thinking such of you,” I said, while hoping otherwise.
She could be the good girl that bad boys talked about, a lady in society and something else entirely once the bedroom doors were closed. “My name is Albert Speer.”

“And I am Benito Mussolini.” By the name, I assumed she was Italian. And a man. The difference seemed more obvious when he removed his hat, revealing a shiny hairless dome. He smiled broadly at me. “Speer, the architect? Oh yes, I’ve heard much about you. I’m told your pillars are very impressive.”

From someone further back in the villa Adolf stumbled over, clutching a wine glass in each hand. He threw his arms around each of us. “Smashing party isn’t it? I was just telling Eva this funny joke about…” He struggled for a moment, leaning heavily on my shoulder. “Nope, no, I’ve gone and forgotten it now. Anyway, come over and try some of this bratwurst that Goering made. It’s to die for.”

He pulled his arm tight around my neck, trying to get the glass to reach his lips, but not quite succeeding. He was just managing to nudge the rim against his chin when he faltered, distracted by the sight of Heinrich emptying a plate of half eaten bratwurst into a flower pot under one of the ornamental lamp posts. “Hey!” he called out, spilling champagne down the front of my suit. “don't put that there! Do you have any idea what that is!?” Heinrich started. “It’s… it’s a pole? Get it? It’s a pole!” He then proceeded to laugh at his own joke as Heinrich kneeled down to scope the mangled sausages back onto his plate. Adolf slowly pulled his arms free and headed back inside, carefully pacing out each step. “Hey everyone, come and see this trick I taught Blondi to do…”

persiphone_hellecat
09-27-2006, 12:23 AM
OK so this one is a little long ... Sue me ... I like it anyway...


She glanced across the casino casually. Right away, she knew where he was. There was a large, noisy crowd at a dice table. He would be in the middle of it. She walked deliberately across the room, the stretchy fabric of her black skin-tight gown getting a workout all the way.

When she arrived at the table, she slipped through the crowd like wine through a sieve until she was standing beside him. It was him; she knew him by sight, but the American flag bowtie and the flag pin on the lapel of his tux confirmed it. She smiled. “It looks like you are very lucky tonight, sir.”

He eyeballed her up and down, noticing a few patches of cellulite poking through the tight black fabric. She probably looked like sh!t naked. His eyes went back up again, coming to rest on the dangerous décolletage neckline of her couture gown. Okay, so maybe topless wouldn’t be too bad. “That remains to be seen, Miss?”

“Versace, Donatella Versace”

He took her hand and kissed it. “Hmm. By sight, I assumed she came from heaven, but by the name, I assumed she was Italian. The name’s Clary. D Clary.” He held the dice out to her. “Care to blow … for luck … on the dice?”

“A kind of light-hearted attitude for something like that could get you killed, Mr. Clary.”
She took them from him and tucked them down the front of her dress.

“Don't put that there! Do you have any idea what that is!?” She shook her breasts, then dipped her finger into her cavernous cleavage and recovered the dice. “For luck.”

As he bent forward to toss the dice, he felt the barrel of a revolver dig hard into his ribs. Trouble. Just when he was winning, there was always trouble. “Snake eyes,” the croupier said loudly. “The gentleman loses.”

She whispered in his ear. “Yes, Mr. Clary, I’m afraid you do. You’re surrounded by some of the best marksmen in the French Army. I suggest you come with me. They are trigger-happy tonight. It’s been so long since they have tasted blood on the Seine. Once, this river ran red with blood. Those were the good old days.”

They were about to exit the casino when another woman stepped in front of them. “Well if it isn’t Donatella Versace! I caught your spring show, dear. Can you say “schmata”?”

Donatella glared at the woman. “Stella Mc Cartney! I caught your show, too, dear. Good thing your father has forty billion dollars to back you up.”

Stella glared at Donatella. “Shut up, you fool. I’m here for the same reason you are. Mr. Clary, the international designers federation intends to turn you away from American fashion.”

“Never!” he cried, opening his jacket to reveal the Ralph Lauren label. “This is one agent who wears American or nothing at all!”

A man stepped between the two women brandishing a Glock. “”Let me guess,” Clary said. “Christian Dior?”

“Christian Lacroix, sir, and I wonder how much you’ll enjoy wearing American to your funeral.”

Clary laughed proudly. “I imagine I’ll feel American.” The answer was correct, but there was a price to pay anyway. Some questions are not that simple.

Back at headquarters, this was the thirty-sixth day Lisa has spent at her computer and now the 40-watt light bulbs were giving way before her. She turned anxiously. “O? We have a problem, sir. It’s Clary – Agent 005. He’s been captured by three members of the international design federation. I’m watching it on his American flag lapel pin cam.”

O stared at the screen. “Quick! Activate his bowtie poison gas!”

On the screen, the watched as a stream of gas poured from the tie around Agent Clary’s neck. The three designers fell to the ground. He died. She died. They died. Damn it, even SHE died. Clary bent over for one last look down her dress. Fake.

Outside the casino, Clary searched for his contact. There he was. Underneath the streetlight's glowing cone, Conlan's silhouette became the target of everyone's eyes. Conlan wasn’t very good at blending in. He really sucked as an agent.

“Avoided another near disaster, eh Agent Clary?”

“Sure did, Tonto, now let’s go home. I need to slip into my Tommy Hilfiger jammies and sleep about 12 hours.”

dclary
09-27-2006, 01:11 AM
Yay me!

JackieA
09-27-2006, 02:23 AM
No one liked looking for a missing child, and searching along a fog-shrouded riverbank was right down there at the bottom of the list.

Theresa Santini. Female. Age, six years. Described as four feet two inches tall, with black hair and brown eyes. Last seen wearing a pink denim boiler suit over a purple tea shirt, and size three white sneakers. By the name, I assumed she was Italian. Her mother last saw her at five o’clock yesterday evening, out front, playing with neighbouring kids

My night shift was minutes from completion when an early morning dog walker called in explaining he’d found some kid's sneakers this morning near the riverbank. Twenty minutes later, when I asked him approximately what time that was, he estimated it must have been around six a.m. The answer was correct, but there was a price to pay anyway. Some questions are not that simple. He’d stopped to chat with another dog owner a few moments before who confirmed the time. Unfortunately, when the dog walker found the sneakers, the feet were still in them. I suppose you can’t blame the poor s-o-b for puking all over the crime scene, it sure screwed up our chances of finding any further significant clues.

Once, this river ran red with blood. Those were the good old days. Now the local street gangs used it to dispose of members of the opposition who had the misfortune to annoy someone one in the opposing side. But that didn’t explain how these sneakers and their gory contents ended up here, several miles away from the child’s front garden. A cursory glance across the field revealed a constable carrying the sneakers towards a nearby rubbish bin

“Don't put that there! Do you have any idea what that is!? Bring them back here”

“Sergeant?”

I watched Fox, my long-time and trusted partner approach. “Yeah? What is it?”

“The kid’s been found. They’ve called the parents to come and collect her.” Fox grinned as he approached.

“What are you talking about?” I pointed to the returning constable still carrying the offending sneakers.

“I tried to tell you Serge.” The constable winked at Fox. “These,” he held out the sneakers. “These came from the local joke shop.”

persiphone_hellecat
09-27-2006, 02:43 AM
Yay me! I am envisioning a whole series of DClary spy stories - The Spy Who Came in from the Cold War?

Dr No To France? Middlefinger? The Spy Who Loved His Country? Thunderousballs? Dare I??

Fiveofclubs
09-27-2006, 09:09 PM
Well, here is my first post with my writing...enjoy



“I am guilty.”

The answer was correct, but there was a price to pay anyway. Some questions are not that simple.

The judge responded to my plea, “Very good, I’m sure all these other men appreciate your confession. You have saved their lives if not your own.”

“I didn’t confess for them. It’s my understanding that I get to make a public statement before you pass sentence.”

“That is correct.”

“Then here it is. You will kill me for what you believe is murder, but if you don’t continue my work all of you will die too. Those people, all of them, were infected. And, once infected a person becomes an animal of blind fury. Those that are spared death are themselves infected. Nothing can stop it, nothing can cure it. Kill them all before they kill you.

I’ve spent most of my life hunting this plague. Years ago there many of us, we traveled from colony to colony trying to get in front of it. We killed hundreds, maybe thousands. Usually small farming communities, rural, isolated. We move in at night with our blades in hand. They would be just starting their nightly hunt. We got good, very good. When we were done, the river ran red with blood. Those were the good old days.

Then one night, we saw her. We recognized her because we had all killed her several times before. Why didn’t we notice earlier? We leapt at her. She was calm. Not like the others who couldn’t control the fury, she could bury it. I assume that’s what let her move on. Once we reached her, she exploded. It was like hell was unleashed on us. Blades flashed, bones snapped. I don’t remember anything but red and pain. Then I was standing alone. He died. She died. They died. Damn it, even SHE died.

After that night, I didn’t see the plague again. Not until yesterday. Underneath the streetlight’s glowing cone, her silhouette became the target of my eyes. Instinct took over, I killed, and I killed them all.”

The judge sat silently, with his fingers arched under his chin. He drew in a deep breath, “This disease, this plague, I will end it. I pity you for your blindness to reality, but the law is law. You are sentenced to death. This ends your bloody path through history. You seek to wipe out the plague that causes men to kill. Die happy, knowing that with your death, I did it for you.”

dclary
09-27-2006, 10:20 PM
I am envisioning a whole series of DClary spy stories - The Spy Who Came in from the Cold War?

Dr No To France? Middlefinger? The Spy Who Loved His Country? Thunderousballs? Dare I??

Dare!

persiphone_hellecat
09-28-2006, 06:33 AM
We shall have to wait for the next set of sentences. There is already a DClary story on #1 and #2. Next time - Thunderousballs

Xathax
09-28-2006, 02:57 PM
I was leaning against the stained brick of the dilapidated old building that sat, swathed in yellow "CAUTION" warnings, condemned and waiting to die. I was looking for... Oh, before I get started, the name's Imagine.

Now, my name may seem odd to you, and it is. I came up with my name myself. My real name is Bartolomeo. I never knew my mother, but by the name, I assumed she was Italian. I'll never know. I like Imagine better.

It was a different dame I was looking for now and I had a hunch she was somewhere near that window-diner across the street. That's where all my leads led. I'd have gone over there, but with all the rain pouring down the sides of the buildings around here, the street had turned into a river, and I wasn't about to soak my new $43 pants just to find this dame. Or was I?

Once, this river ran red with blood. Those were the good old days, back before Conlan came around. Now Conlan might seem as odd a name for a broad as Imagine is for a Joe like me. Her mother was probably Italian too.

Anyway, back to the good old days. We had a nice racket running back when this crumbling pile of brick behind me was the center of the down-town high-life. We owned downtown and everybody in it and nobody gave us any gruff or they ended up dead in the streets, or close enough. Then Conlan came into the picture.

A couple of the fellas all fell for her at once, and these were the rough sort of guys that you didn't want to bump into on the street. I had a broad, went by Memory, so I wasn't interested, but I saw it comin'.

At first, the guys all thought they could share Conlan, an' everyone was all easy about it. Eventually though, some incidents happened. It started to get messy. A kind of light-hearted attitude about something like that could get you killed, especially in that bunch.

The boss saw what was goin' on and told me it was going to get ugly with the gang, even told me to get Memory outta the city. He died. She died. They died. Damn it, even SHE died.

Problem was, after all there years, she was back. Somehow Conlan wasn't dead like I'd heard. I'd hit a rough patch after the toughs all shot each other and took Memory with them, a ten year dive.

I took a plunge and stepped into the water, figuring I might as well get to the bottom of it all. Hell, what's $43 pants if you got nothin' to live for? By the time I'd crossed the street, she was there.

Underneath the streetlight's glowing cone, Conlan's silhouette became the target of everyone's eyes; me and the two guys on the garbage truck that drove by that is. She still looked good, not as good as Memory, but then I was biased.

As long as I was wet already, I walked over, standing at the edge of the washed-out yellow light. We looked each other over for a while.

"You ended everything," was all I said. Might as well get to the point.

She didn't waste words either. "Yes, I'm sorry."

I put a bullet from my Colt right between her eyes. The answer was correct, but there was a price to pay anyway. Some questions are not that simple.