Oh dear, I killed the thread. Sorry!

I only have the opener:

The moon was swollen and yellow in the velvet black of the night sky. The color reminded Patrice of urine. She shook her head as if to shake away the memories of that awful night in Nashville and the ensuing mayhem that resulted from her dog Henry's unfortunate taste for ecstasy, root beer and stale Cheetos.

She could hardly blame Reese for leaving her high and dry after that. Well, high, anyway.

Cash, just borrow some of Jilli's words, she ran over. And you're both talking about night, kinda. It should work, just like a Mad Libs book.

smelted in the furnace of her soul

Do you know, it's really really really really REALLY frellin' nice to have a break from writing angst?

This topic is making me so damned happy...

edit: any bets on who uses the phrase "swooning, half-carried away on the tide of passion" first? Because I may be tapped out on bad for a day or two, over here. That shit is really tricky to write.

The desert lay before him, on the other side of the steering wheel. It was a big desert. Big and empty and dry. Like his heart.

"Good," Jake thought, throwing a cigarette butt out the window into the hot, scorching air of the empty desert. "This desert is the only place I belong right now."

He knew his sensitive soul wouldn't be able to survive in a place teeming with other people's emotions, assaulting him with every breath he took, every thump of his heart. No, he needed this broiling hot vista, because it was empty.

So he drove on.

[[100 words exactly!]]

Teppy, it needs a name.

I'm thinking "Desert."

I'm thinking "Desert."

Heh. That wouldn't be too subtle? I mean, I want people to *feel* the metaphor of the desert, man....

(I may have to leave town after this one. This one's for erika. With apologies to Dashiell and also to Mr. Chandler...)

Framed

She was hotter than the Sunset Grill that time the cook spilled the sterno. Curves, smoky voice - everything about her yelled sex, but there was ice in her wounded bunny eyes.

Her lips trembled as I poured her a shot of rye from the flask in my desk drawer. "So what's your beef, sweetheart?"

"Call me Jessica." The story poured out, same old story I hear every day. Cheating husband, empty bank account, evidence. She needed a PI. She wrote me a retainer.

"I'll call you when I have something." I glanced at her signature, and added, "Mrs. Rabbit."

Oh, rassenfrassensnifsnaf, you guys are killing me! There's no way I can ever write that bad. Guess I'm going to have to learn to write better first, so I can learn how to even write bad well.

I'm finding that it's actually more difficult to write really badly.