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21 June 2005
Drabble. Let's do some Drabbles. Write a short story containing exactly 100 words then post it here.
After the butterflies died, he stayed in bed. His wife stayed with him for two more patient years. In the end it wasn't enough. 'There are people.' she said before she left. 'The butterflies are gone' he said. 'I know'. was her reply. Forteen months later his house was repossessed. He moved out and stopped talking. After ten days a man came to see him. 'What can you see?' asked the man and he held out a card. Ink splattered a thick abdomen, the hint of androconial scales. His mouth opened. 'A picture' he said. 'Not real. Just a picture.'
Alex could hear the President's daughter struggling to free herself from the cage they had locked her in and she knew that if the kidnappers heard the girl's noisy attempts at freedom, they would probably hurt her then perform a perimeter search and capture her as well. No time to lose. "Jill, don't worry, I'm here to rescue you." The cage fell silent. "Who are you?", she responded. "My name is Alex Li and I'm going to get you out of there." "How?" "Just sit tight, okay? I'll be right back", she whispered assuredly.
Chow Chow forced the last few M&Ms between his trembling lips and tried with all of his energy to keep his mouth shut. It felt as if the first candies into his mouth were trying to make a run for his stomach, but his clenched throat fought in vein to stop the chocolate and candy shell stampede.
“How many?” his eyes pleaded. “How many!?!”
His accomplices did not understand. “Do you want to try a few more?” one asked, unsure of if that was wise to try or even possible.
“We should have been counting them,” the other suggested.
"I saw the best minds of my generation..." No, wait. What did I see? I saw... I didn't see. I can't see! I'm blind! My god, I'm blind and I can't get up. Dear, can you hand me the pork chops? Don't dribble it on my drabble!
The next morning.
Oh man, those pork chops were incredible last night. I think I'm going to write a sonnet about them. Here goes:
She and I went to the park on a glorius summers day. We laid on the grass, I idly surveyed the scene. Cones of light shone through the trees spotlighting blades of grass and dandelions. Red faced children played football until exhausted. A panting dog shattered the still surface of the pond and then shook shards of cold water from it's fur. Ducks regarded the mutt's enthusiasm with contempt.
She asked me "Does it get any better than this?"
"No, I don't think it does." I replied.
She looked at me doe-eyed and tired: "Then why are we still together?"
Cleopatra sighed. Antony had abandoned her and there was nothing left but suicide. But she wanted to make her feelings known before that great leap into eternity, so she summoned her courtiers and, holding the poisonous serpent she had chosen, launched into a speech concerning her decision—a suicide oration. She told why and wherefore, how it had come about and could have been prevented, why a serpent was apt. Indeed, she went on so long that the serpent expired of old age and a new one had to be fetched. The moral? Never let your speech exceed your asp.
The Jehovah's Witnesses' Witnesses are a religious group dedicated to observing the comings and goings of Jehovah's Witnesses. Oftentimes you can see them in twos and threes outside the Kingdom Hall, wearing overcoats, and carrying plastic bags in which are pairs of binoculars and intricately-annotated notepads. As missionaries go from door to door, the JWWs follow discreetly, forty yards behind, intent on recording their quarries' movements and behaviours, continually updating their living Testament. Recently, a schism in their ranks has led to a new sub-group of pious souls, who spy on their former brethren: these are Jehovah's Witnesses' Witnesses' Witnesses…
For his eighteenth birthday Ralph’s uncle Syd got him a lap dance. Both frightened and enthralled by the experience Ralph never went back to a strip club nor did he stop thinking about them.
He got a degree, married a raven-haired girl named Anne and they had two children, Todd and Wendy. They lived in an Edwardian home in a gentrified neighborhood within walking distance of some restaurants and a park.
One day Ralph quelled his fear and went to a bar and got a table dance. Now Ralph collects cans from alleys to pay the homeless ladies to dance.
The rheumy eyes of the old lady sitting on the park bench did not see the children playing in the sun; they did not see the trees or the squirrels or the birds. They saw a smiling young god proud in his army uniform, about to leave her for the Great War in Europe, the man she had waited for all her life. Her body felt the gentle rain of his kisses. Her ears heard his promises of a future filled with dogs and babies and love, promises that ended here in this park, on this bench, her only home.
I gave at the office. For real, this time. My bosses called me in for a conference, all five of them, and I sat on the examination table, holding my folder full of nothing.
I struggled at first, but when they threatened my benefits, I gave up and let them cut.
The elevator banks each cover twenty floors. I wobbled in from the fifty-seventh and pressed down. My stitches opened around the forty-fifth.
The elevator goes nonstop to the lobby from the fortieth floor. Only today it lurched and stuck somewhere in between.
The woman who stole our cat lives in a lawnless mansion. The first time she stole our cat, a neighbor's gardener ratted her out; this time, she was more discreet. We know he's there, but we have no proof. We've been watching her husband's Lexus slide down the driveway every morning. He keeps a golf bag in the passenger's seat, and he's never home before ten. We watch, and her child, mousey-haired and gaunt for a toddler, watches us from a corner of the bay window. Her gaze is feral. She knows we know.
Tonight we are going in.
I killed a man. Jim Drabble. I didn’t mean to do it. We were drinking bourbon and watching Monty Python on the tube. I really can’t remember what started the argument but I remember the sound of his head hitting the table. I did my time in Her Majesty’s prison at Maidstone and read the bible. I lead a clean and sober life as a minister now but in a fearful symmetry author Margaret Drabble is writing a book about Jim and I. I am not cooperating with her but I wish her well. Perhaps I should write about this?
The old man and the little boy sat wearily behind the flea market table. It was hot; they looked dusty, uncomfortable. It was late, their table was the very last one, not many people had made it that far. It was strewn with cast-offs and unwanted junk…a real hodgepodge. I spied a Chinese teabox. Really beautiful. I collected them, I knew how much it was worth.
“How much?”
“Fifty cents.”
I tried not to smirk as I handed the man 2 quarters. As I walked away I heard the boy say, “See, Grandpa? I told you we would sell something.”
My father's house has a silver-papered master bath, framed leopards on the bedroom wall. His teeth are more beautifully white than those he had when young. His cats, both male, fight all day and fall asleep in each other's arms. His liquor cabinet is full, his Jacuzzi blue-lit, his closet hung with pale shirts that hug his still-small waist. Open the front door to orderly house rows, the wheat fields beyond, and farther yet the cattle truck-choked highway —a half-day's drive from any city, with a half-day’s drive more required to reach those women, still living, who once loved him.
They traveled down that double-breasted highway; going, going, gone. The scenery was about as varied as that in the old silent films that Halley and Laura sought out during college. A jittery jalopy inevitably bounced in front of a painted canvas that rolled across the screen and out of view. The same barnyard or oak tree would rush by several times before Halley realized that he was in fact observing a movie set and not a pastoral country view. The discovery always depressed him a little. Laura said he was just gullible that way.
Yesterday she underwent a root canal and today her cheeks were slightly swollen. After dividing into two groups, I sat to watch the first troupe dance. Normally she is a lovely dancer; dental pain changed that. Lithe pirouettes devolved into sharp pivots. Posing eroded to a testy stance. Graceful flicks of the wrists became exasperated snaps. I couldn't help my giggling. She squealed for me to stop. While performing I did certain movements while looking directly into her eyes. Others who saw it laughed, and my teacher demanded to know what was so funny. No one told her.
photo by splunge
photo by TheophileEscargot
photo by Kronos_to_Earth
photo by ethylene
