Hey, I have more practice trying to make my bad writing good than bad writing left whimpering on its own.

I tried the non-linear over metaphored angle meself.

Although, I do bow to the flowery badness that is your Night drabble, in all candor.

Although, I do bow to the flowery badness that is your Night drabble, in all candor.

Thank you! Doesn't it suck?

Man, bad writing on purpose? Hard.

Sucks like a sucking thing.

Really hard to keep it bad and brief, too. I had some really bad metaphors in there and some more runons, but they made it longer than 100 words.

Discipline is HARD.

Hmmmm.

Having done two overdones, maybe I should try a Hemingway chop-up?

Third one.

Bad Hemingway

The room was dark. Cold. No lightbulb in the fixture. Some asshole took it away. Left me in the dark.

I walked forward. I had to - just do it. Left foot first. Right foot. Left. Right. Left. I walked.

My right foot met something on the floor. Squishy. Soft. It wobbled like a cheap special effect. I felt it, shivering, quivering, like monster guts in a B movie.

No light. I couldn't see. I cursed: damn darkness. My words echoed back at me like vindaloo cooked with rancid ghee.

But the squishy thing on the floor made no reply.

Drabble #2

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“Not this time, you belching fornicating mound of useless putrescent flesh.” She fairly spat her defiance at him with all the venomous vigor twenty years of matrimonial captivity had soaked into her-flesh, blood, and bone.

Her bags were packed and already stowed in young Yancy’s fancy sports car ready to make their escape with the life insurance paperwork safely ensconced in the zippered compartment up front. There was only one bulbous bellied thing between her delicate flower scented self and freedom, and Yancy would be coming out of the closet anytime now to take care of that.

Anytime now.

Yancy?

Oh, this is fun. Deb, your Hemingway is dead on.

And Astarte just made me snort diet Pepsi through my nose.

Here's my first try.

Truest Purest Love

It was a dark and stormy night. Dark because it was night, of course, and because of the storm. The cursed windy, rainy storm!

If only she were here with him! His love, his heart, his soul, his very nostril hairs! Words could not describe even the lovely limpid pools of her eyes. But while the storm blew and rained outside, where it was very dark, he would write an ode to her eyes.

Round, they are, and limpid, too,
As wet as morning’s dampest dew.
Blue and green and bright and true,
And sometimes just a bit brown, too.

Heh. Even "good" Hemingway makes me break out in hives*, so yeeeeesh.

*Well, except for A Moveable Feast.

Bulwer-Lytton would be so proud, AmyLiz.

Heh.

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BWAH!

His love, his heart, his soul, his very nostril hairs!

BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Well, except for A Moveable Feast.

My sistah!