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
Next Week on “Lifetime Cinema for Women”
“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.
[link]
Hee, hee. Luckily "my" genre has plenty of sucktastic possibilities.
Why I Like “Cock”
Awestruck she stared at his turgid, swollen member, his proudly outthrust manhood, throbbing with a questing, pulsing rhythm older than time. How could her untried virginal core hold even the tip of so noble a manroot? Unbidden her throat emitted a tiny squeak of terror.
His questing hand sought out the slick, molten moistness of her tight little honeypot. Soon his sword would pierce her final defenses, the last barriers of her sacred innocence, and probe her hidden treasures. Lord Rodney Shaftington, Duke of Ravenscliff, Regency Spy-Soldier-Lord extraordinaire, prepared to storm the citadel of passion.
Manroots and honeypots and citadels, oh my!!!
