Trying my hand at one of these. It was hard to get this to 100 words exactly.

Two

The painting over the mantle shows a staid woman--tidy hair, starched collar, blank gaze fixed high over the viewer's shoulder. Great-grandmother Emma: matriarch and obedient wife, given to fits of melancholy.

This picture shows a woman who, interrupted, might tell the viewer to mind his own damned business. It shows another woman, perhaps the mysterious "Clara" mentioned (always in passing, always with disapproval) in their great-uncle's letters.

Jane takes the photograph when she runs away, as proof that there's one family member (so what if she's long-dead?) who understands why she's leaving and who may even give her blessing.

Oh, nice one, Anne.

Same photo:

Ana stood close so her warmth reassured Miss Paula she was there, even in the wind threading the mountains. The breeze swirled the fragrance of the nosegay Miss Paula held around her before carrying it away. Her back was ramrod straight, her face eager toward the horizon, facing into the wind, and her hat stayed firmly pinned at its jaunty angle. Ana wondered what Miss Paula imagined was out there, toward where her face turned and her body inclined. Though she might never know, with Ana's help Miss Paula need never concede the experience of this moment to mere blindness.

Ooh, I like those. Both sort of have an "up yours" flavor to them, but very different.

Strange how an idea can just grab something, and pop an entire world, mostly formed, into your head.

Mine is a bit over, but I may just keep it and see if it grows.

[link]

Rain got caught in his upturned collar, pooled, dripped cold down his neck. He smoked and ignored it.

Thirty-two deaths over the past one hundred twelve years. All horrific, each spawning its own new nightmares carried by the locals, each deepening the madness of the area a little bit more. Some day it might reach critical mass, the insanity heavy enough to sink through to another realm of hellish terror, tearing open a psychic doorway hanging tattered in its wake.

It was time to clean it up, excise the nightmare, expel the creature of blood and screams that imbued the place, embodied the place. That was his job, after all.

He was a Magistrate.

Photo

"What a cliché," said the Fearless Demon Hunter, rolling his eyes. "I really have this eye-rolling thing down," he thought. They were approaching the old convent, now converted to upscale condos.

"What do you mean?" said the Eager Young Apprentice.

"Everyone who's ever been to Catholic school dreams of killer nuns. Or killing nuns. Or dressing up little girls in nun's habits, taking pictures, then slipping the habit off slowly and…."

"And what?"

"What was I saying? I was saying that there's no such thing as killer nuns."

He was still saying that when the rosary tightened around his neck.

Ok, just got praise from an editor for something I could do with one finger tied behind me(not literally. Much like Mr. Olbermann, I am a two-fingered typist. However.) It's cake. So that's why I look like Wonder Woman turning it in so fast. Also, I have no life, a shiny new internet connection and the urge to pretend that I am the kind of person for whom deadlines still matter. A "citizen", so to speak. Also, asking me to do that is like asking Dr. House to consult on your sinusitis. Except I am polite and will follow through... But I guess I'll just end up e-mailing "Thanks so much. Glad you like it." "I saw my life flash before my eyes. I've got to get myself a life."

MM, kind of a Constantine feel to that one. I'd love to see it grow.

Ginger--the coffee, when it's snorfled? Burns a bit. Also? I just noticed the heart-shaped photo corners on that pic and have this whole "had a crush on Belinda, before she was Sister Mary Emmanthaler" thing going on.

Just a note to let people know my occasional column, "How to Succeed As A Failing Writer," is back. The current installment is: Long Time Quiet Now: A brief break in the silence.

Photo drabble. This one.

She doesn’t get paid enough for this.

“No blood at least.” Marty’s shock of pewter hair falls in his eyes as he crouches over his newspaper. “Should have seen that dealer get popped.”

She rolls the cleaning cart out onto the sidewalk. Some girl took a handful pills to disappear, and once the dull roar of chaos has faded, who gets to clean up? She does, that’s who.

She tucks her hair behind her ear. At least she’s got a job, a place of her own. She does what she has to do.

She doesn’t look in the mirror, though.

Oooh, nice, Amy. You guys are gonna get all the good ones before I get a chance to sit down and plot.