Just for Fun: Join in on the theme!

rhymegirl

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mommie4a said:
I think folks have enjoyed whatever's posted here, whether it's one story, two stories, or several prompts combined. Good exercise, good reading, good writing (we hope!).

I think you are right! :)
 

mommie4a

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In the Stream of Consciousness style

I've never written anything (purposefully) in this style before. But I couldn't stop myself with this one.

Stars and Stings Forever

Tears streaming groaning grunting eyes squinting tight. Backhanded wrists wiping swiping leave drying streaks. Sniffles sighs and breaths. Glasses on crooked on the bridge of my nose. Sharp knife plunging cutting slicing sight unseen. Uneven. Near fingers? Peeking, can’t look. Feeling wet hard cold cool. Cup and toss and walk away. Damn. Red onion pasta salad. The picnic better be good.
 

rhymegirl

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Shawn,

If you go to the Absolute Write Idol thread: Sticky: The Voters Choice! Come on Over. Post#93 (Sarah's choices) and #97 (William's choices)
Sarah has to pick one of Will's choices and one of hers; and vice versa.
 

Paint

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Mr. Grimm's Tale

Short story
439 words


“Okay now you have got to be kidding! She kisses a what and they live where?” I couldn't beleive my frozen ears.


“Happily Ever After” Mr. Grimm said, shaking his long grey hair at me. He was trying to keep the snow brushed off his long dark coat, with a tri-corne hat.



“That’s not how I would have written it. I am Stephen Bing, master of suspense and horror. There’s no twist, no thrill, no sense of ‘get up and lock the door.’ I know what people want to read.”



“My tales are written for small, larky children.” Mr. Grimm replied with great distain. “They are written to read around the fireside. Not to scare them so they throw up their porridge.”



“Larky? Larky? What do they learn in your stories? How a girl must have a prince to make her life ‘happily ever after?’ My audience is young people (and older, I added to myself proudly) who can challenge me with video games. They keep me running to keep up with them mentally with theories of quantum discoveries. Larky?” I ridiculed, but to no avail, the elusive Mr. Grimm only snorted.



Trying a new tact, I remarked casually, “I have a hat just like that. I found it up in my attic. It was lodged behind a door. Cleaned up nice.” I showed it to him.



Mr. Grimm stared at me with the most unusual of looks. Suspicious even. I began to feel distinctly uneasy.



“What? I was just making conversation.” I seemed to be making the gentleman angry, and I had not the slightest idea why. “Let me see your hat again.”



“No!” He replied quite emphatically. What was up? I wondered. Grimm tried to hide the hat behind his back, but not before I saw the hole. I drew in my breath sharply. My hat had a hole in it too! The landscape tilted. All of a sudden the snow seemed to turn pink. I think all the blood rushed to my head.



“Mr. Grimm, do you wear that hat when you write stories?” I asked him very quietly.



“Well, yes it is my splendid tale hat.”



“Mr. Grimm, it is my lucky hat. I write my best stories when I am wearing it”



We stared at each other, the truth too much to understand.



I gulped quite noisily. The stories… the stories, from my mind to his. Through a hole in a hat. It couldn’t be. I cleared my throat. It felt like all the dirt of the earth was lodged there.



“She kissed a frog, and then you say…”
 

Ddama

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'lo, all. Been wrapped up in the dreaded moving... missed out on last week's entry, because it's on the computer that hasn't been unpacked yet. Brilliant move on my part... anyway, a touch of the old stream of consciousness for your troubles. however many words it comes out to.

hit by a car. i was alone in algeria when my son died at fifteen hit by a car driven by a drunk frat boy to kill them all i wanted to hurt so bad every drunk driver and make them all relive those final seconds I wasn't there suffering crushed me, folded, mutilated, spindled.
outside poverty rape war, civil and other.
inside five stars a drunk man pressed me against the wall of the elevator tired scared too tired and scared and scarred to scream his heavy moustache reeking of vodka at nine AM tout le juif he said pointing his finger in my face tout le juif vivent a new york drunk please God don't hurt me stay calm and breathe.
the door opened in the lobby they pointed and whispered
killed
ashqarah
pied noir
wearing mourning like a veil
pressed up against the wall breathe.
breathe dark-skinned honeysuckle jinbad the concierge madame he says your car is here your luggage is packed we are so sorry for your loss please visit us again.
your car tout le juif he drunk cried i wasn't there for him in algeria. hit by a car.
 

DJP

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Okay, Mkcbunny prompted for a children's story, so here's mine. I would love any feedback anyone could give me, here or by pm or email. I really want to see this one published one day, so I'm open to honesty. Thanks.


HEARTPRINTS

by
Darla Paskell







Every day, Daddy comes home and calls, “Where’s my little angel?” Giggles and little footfalls disappear down the hall. “Daddy’s coming for a kiss!” he STOMP, STOMP, STOMPS down the hall. “What’s this? Angel footprints for me to follow!” The giggles grow louder, and soon Daddy has his little angel bouncing in his arms.

“Again Daddy, again!” she squirms down and races to another room.

“Daddy’s coming for a kiss!” he calls, STOMP, STOMP, STOMP. “Following angel footprints…”

Some time passes, and Daddy still comes home every day and calls, “Where’s my little angel?” Giggles come from somewhere in the house, and Daddy STOMP, STOMP, STOMPS to them. “Daddy’s coming for a kiss! Oh look, angel footprints for me to follow.” The giggles grow louder, and soon Daddy has his little angel snuggling in his arms.

“Again Daddy, again!” she shuffles to another room, and he soon follows, looking for his kiss.

Some more time passes, and Daddy still comes home every day and calls, “Where’s my little angel?” Giggles come from the nest on the couch, and Daddy STOMP, STOMP, STOMPS to them. “Daddy’s coming for a kiss, following an angel’s footprints.” He kisses the tip of her nose, and she giggles softly.

“Again Daddy, again,” she whispers. He carries her to another room, and STOMP, STOMP, STOMPS with her in his arms.

“Daddy’s coming for a kiss!” he calls, and cuddles her close.

Even more time passes, and Daddy still comes home every day and calls, “Where’s my little angel?” He STOMP, STOMP, STOMPS to her bedroom, breaking the silence with his warning, “Daddy’s coming for a kiss! Following my angel’s footprints.” He finds his little angel nestled in her bed, and kisses her gently.

“Again Daddy,” she murmurs. He goes back to the front door, and pretends he’s just getting home from work.

“Daddy’s coming for a kiss! Following my angel’s footprints.” She giggles from her room.

Even more time passes, and Daddy doesn’t come home calling for his angel. Instead, he visits her in the hospital, and asks every day, “Where’s my little angel?” He sits beside her bed and holds her tiny hand. “Following angel footprints to get my kiss.” He softly kisses her wrist, and feels the faint pulse on his lips, da dum… da dum… da dum…

One day, Daddy comes calling “Where’s my little angel?” He’s shocked to hear a giggle, and see her sitting up in her bed. “Daddy’s coming for a kiss,” he whispers, “following angel footprints.”

“No Daddy,” she says, “angel’s don’t leave footprints.” She places his hand on her chest, where he feels the strong beat, DA DUM, DA DUM, DA DUM. “They leave heartprints.”

A little more time passes, and Daddy comes home with his angel. “Here we are, my little angel.” He sets her down.

“But Daddy, I can’t be an angel. I leave footprints, see?” she points to the prints on the ground.

“Yes, you do,” he whispers, and holds her tight. “Yes… you do.”
 
Last edited:

Duncan J Macdonald

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JFF Finals

Okay Sports Fans! Time to play "Shred Your Entry"!

No, honestly, I aimed for all four, and fell halfway through. I know it's late, but I'll chalk that up to the Board's Database Problems and my being on travel for business reasons. (Don't ask. If da Boss wanted yiz to know, he woulda told yiz.)

Anyway, two for your dining and dancing pleasure, as weak as they are.



Seven Years After
by
Duncan J Macdonald


Queen Snow White stalked down the hallways of her familial castle, fuming over King Charming's latest slight. Wise servitors rapidly found other places to be, while those of lesser wit were left to step quickly out of her way or be rudely knocked aside. The older ones shook their heads sadly after the Queen had passed, remembering the quieter, calmer days just after the wedding and the dancing death of the Queen's Mother.


Reaching her chambers, the Queen stormed inside and slammed the door behind her. "God damned lecherous, pig-ugly, drooling, rat-faced, brainless arsehole of a man!" She picked up a rare lead-crystal vase and hurled it across the room. The tinkling sound of shattering crystal as the bits of the once expensive vase struck the floor was somehow soothing to her nerves, and more items of delicate beauty followed in the vase's wake to end as ugly heaps of broken glass and china.

The destruction of the more easily thrown items satiated her anger enough for her to control it. She turned next to the Magic Mirror, waiting in its ornate stand near the window embrasure.


"Mirror, mirror, untouched and fine,

Where's that lying, cheating, man of mine?"



"He, my queen, doth cheat 'tis true,

I will not lie, at least, to you.

Your older husband, the present King,

With a prepubescent wench doth fling."



Snow White's eyes narrowed, and her rage grew again. It had been seven years since their grand wedding -- seven years of constantly lessening attention, paralleling in reverse her development as a woman. She had been seven years old when she'd woken up in that crystal coffin, and his desire had been a hot thing, wild and abandoned. She'd married him willingly, partially, it was true, to see vengeance done, but in the main she'd responded to the fire of his love.


She'd listened carefully to the chatter of her Ladies in Waiting when they thought she couldn't hear, and to the more forward chambermaids. They hadn't talked about anything that she hadn't already experienced, or done herself -- from persuading the Huntsman to let her go, to living with seven horny dwarfs, to being bedded by Prince Charming since before the wedding. It was the other things that she wanted eagerly to hear. The romance, the bringing of flowers, the growth of love. It was those things that her marriage to Charming had deprived her of. She had kept hoping that as she grew toward womanhood that he would love her more. But no! He had turned further from her instead. Today was just the icing on the cake. It was their seventh Wedding Anniversary, and she'd gotten up before dawn to let the hairdressers get an early start. Later, the dressmakers had arrived to almost literally pour her into her gown -- a gown designed to accentuate her bosom, her hips, the swell of her Mons Venus, her every feminine weapon. She had spent hours perfecting her skills as a coquette. She had gone into the banquet radiantly assured that this, this, would catch and hold her husband's flagging interest.

She started cursing. That ignorant swine of a King Charming had ignored her completely and spent his time making moon-eyes at the cook's youngest daughter, just turned eight, and serving at the high table for the first time.
"I'll show that god damned puking pedophile. Ignore me, will he? This is my Mother's castle, and I'm my Mother's daughter! Then she went into her most secret room -- no one else was allowed inside -- and she made a two poisoned, apples. From the outside they were red and beautiful, and anyone who saw them would want them. Then she disguised herself as a palace servant, went to the King's Chambers and knocked on the door.

The Cook's daughter peeped out and said, "I'm not allowed to let anyone in. The King has forbidden it most severely."

"I am just delivering these two apples," said the peasant woman. "One for you and one for the King."

"No, I can't accept anything. The King doesn't want me to." But her desire for it grew stronger, so she finally let the servant hand her the two apples. She went skipping gaily toward the King, and the servant entered the chambers quietly behind her. The little girl gave one apple to the King, lying nude in his bed, and kept the other for herself. They bit into them together, but they barely had the bite in their mouths when they fell dead.

Remembering how she had been woken from the spell, the Queen opened their mouths and shoved the apple bites further down their throats, beyond the chance that jostling the bodies could dislodge them. Then she returned to her chambers, smiling and happy.

After the Royal funeral, Queen Snow White reigned for many years, ably assisted by her Prince Consorts, and she lived Happily Ever After.





A Conversation in Time
by
Duncan J Macdonald


"So, now that you're here, lets get down to cases." I waved the gentleman standing on the threshold of my office to the chair waiting on the other side of my desk. "Please, sir, take a seat."

I watched carefully as he entered and sat as I had invited him to. He moved confidently, without any overt display of aggression, yet with an inner sense of assurance that was incredibly sexy. Careful now, I thought, it won't do to let those kinds of feelings influence me -- at least not until after dinner and a movie.


"Have y ou been well treated?"

"Yes," he replied, "Your staff have been the very souls of courtesy. I want for nothing."
That was strange. I had reports on my desk that showed that he'd tried several times to leave the University campus. Once during siesta, and twice in the middle of the night. I really wasn't shocked -- after all, this was the author of "The Prince".


Niccolò Machiavelli had been born in the year 1469 AD Old Style, in Florence, Italy -- or what is now Curciograd in the Southern Administrative District of the Soviet European Democratic Union. The fact that he was now sitting in my office at the University of Bogotá was due to a series of experiments conducted by the Applied Physics Department. They had been trying to see into the future -- to help the Army in their fight against the Cartels -- and had ended up reaching physically into the past. Luckily, one of the laboratory janitors was a refugee from the Consolidation of Europe, and could haltingly understand the archaic Florentine dialect. Verifying his bona fides had fallen to the Department of Comparative Literature, specifically to the Director of Antiquity, and practically, to me.

"Dottore Machiavelli, we have been able to satisfy ourselves that you are, in fact, who you say you are."

He nodded, a king accepting his due.

"Before I allow you free reign of the campus and the city, I would ask you to clear up a minor mystery, one which has kept scholars of Rennaissance Italian at loggerheads for centuries. One group claims that you wrote 'The Prince' as a true expression of your political philosophy. The other claims that you wrote it as an artifice to gain you credit with the Medici family and restore to you your eminence in politics. Which of them are correct?"

"Bella Dottora, I am distraught. I must answer that both sides are wrong and correct at the same time. While it is true that I wished to be reinstated to my diplomatic position in the city, I did not write the treatise as a mere bribe. I also did not write it as an expression of my political thoughts." He leaned forward and his face took on a thoughtful expression. "No, what I wrote was, what do you call them, a 'Techno-thriller'. Yes, that is the word. I wished to become like your historic Signore Clancey."