Because I'm the moderator and I can squeak a drabble in under the line....

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I was in love with J. for 5 years, spanning the end of high school and all of college. Whether he ever loved me back was debatable, but I still made him as large a part of my life as possible. I adopted his favorite music, speech patterns, and food preferences, right down to his habit of eating every bit of an apple -- core, seeds, and all.

When it was clear that he loved N., not me, I was bereft. More than that, I couldn't bear the idea that one day I might get over J. I didn't want to get over him, because that might mean he wasn't meant to be my one great love, and I was positive that he was.

Recently, I inadvertently bit too deeply into a crisp Fuji apple, getting a mouthful of seeds and papery core. I spit out that mouthful instantly, repelled by the seeds' acrid taste.

And....the fruit drabble is closed!

This week's challenge is courtesy of Deb, and refined and tweaked a bit by comments from Connie, P-C, and others.

Drabble a *key* paragraph of a story. You may not be working on a story right now; that's okay. Make something up. (Who knows? Maybe it'll inspire you toward a new story/novel/screenplay.)

It can be the opening paragraph -- that was Deb's original suggestion, because so many writers get stuck on how to begin. It can be the final paragraph, because, again, that's a sticky place.

It can be any paragraph, really, as long as it functions as a key part of the story. Maybe the paragraph where the protagonist's dirty little secret is revealed to the entire town council. Maybe the paragraph where the antagonist lets down his guard, just for a moment, and reveals his human side.

As always, anything goes. And if this topic really throws you, and/or you dislike it with a laser-like intensity, I offer up an alternate drabble topic: keys.

Or, hell, do both topics. Go wild. Just write. The drabble's the thing.

A fantasy novel drabble paragraph from the beginning of a prologue (first thing I've actually taken from a real work at hand. Cool idea!):

The candle on the narrow wooden desk sputtered and shadows flitted across the dark stone walls and rows of bookshelves. The Archivist Haneefah had been in the chamber for hours already today, and hours more stretched in front of her. She gingerly traced the fragile spine of one of the books with a finger. The movement was ragged with fear. Although she had found nothing yet, something in the air harrowed her soul tonight. For weeks, the books had suggested that a great change was at hand, a great evil uncovered, but nothing was defined. What could it mean? Her hand clenched convulsively, and she looked around the room, pondered its mysteries yet again.

(And one from the end of the Prologue 'cause Steph said do both:)

For a second, there was silence.

Thump.

She jumped. Her heart beat wildly in her chest, and she slowly turned around to face the direction of the noise. A book lay open on the floor behind her – a book she had never seen before. An immense, old book, dust billowing around the floor where it had landed. She moved hesitantly toward it, reaching out a trembling hand to turn back the cover and read what was written on the front.

The next sound was her horrified gasp.

I want to play with styles for this one. So....

Pastiche: Opener, Raymond Chandler Noir

Afternoon at the Sunset Bar, you could see a mix of people, the kind of mix that looked to be lifted straight out of Central Casting.

The refrigerator blonde, chilly and breakable, Gucci purse on the table. She was drinking alone. At the bar, Carlos the Runner, taking numbers, doing little deliveries for the upscale importers from Colombia. Off in a corner, a guy with bushy eyebrows and no chin. Scotch and soda, a handful of bar pretzels; he was nervous as hell, crumbling then, flicking away salt.

Only thing out of place was the dead girl in the bathroom.

the opening paragraph from the thing that got my mind working on this idea.

It rained all night. We prayed that it wouldn't wash too much dirt from the new grave in the woods. Tom left the shovel by the back door to let it wash, but our muddy boots were still lined up on the side porch.

Seven pairs of boots. The day before yesterday there had been eight pairs. Seven water-heater-draining showers, seven people not looking at each other, six sets of nightmares being ignored in the night.

I didn't sleep. I stared out my bedroom window into the rain, wishing I knew who the hell these people were.

and the end bit:

Pastiche:Epilogue, Raymond Chandler Noir

The new bartender at the Sunset waved Lieutenant McCrary over to my table.

"What's your poison, Marlowe?"

"A gimlet." McCrary was tight with his money; he must feel he owed me. "But it can wait. Did you nail Masters?"

"He's in County, whining for a lawyer." McCrary sounded amused. "Those eyebrows, no chin, he's gonna be lunchmeat when they convict him."

"Payback for killing his daughter." I emptied my glass. "You're buying?"

Later, heading out into the warm LA night, I spared a moment for the dead girl, and wondered if I'd ever feel the same about the Sunset Bar.

Hello everyone.. x post with livejournal .. I think the key challenge is a cool idea .. hope the entry i´m posting is not too long.. Its the opener of the sci fi novel i started a while ago ..

Part1

I stand hidden behind some bushes and watch, as they come in dark, long lines, creeping their way towards the graves. I have never seen most of this people and assume that they are here for Sam. I have only been here for two months at most, so that’s no wonder. I’m still surprised they buried me here too. It’s not my home after all. I feel completely alone now, I think I have never felt never so alone in my life. I think you are not supposed to watch your own funeral, are you? Well I guess that doesn’t happen too often, so probably nobody ever thought about this. The preacher is now saying something which I can’t hear from where I am and I watch the coffins being put down into the ground. I wonder what’s in them, since they couldn’t find anything after all. Probably Sam’s jacket or some of my clothes, who knows. Strangely it really feels like they are burying me into the ground cause I at this moment I seem to loose all my will to live and go on. What the hell am I doing here anyway?

part 2

The sky above me grumbles and in an instant its begins to rain like there is no tomorrow. I just shake my head, of all the days here in Los Angeles I get buried on one of the few with rain. Get buried .. how strange that sounds. I mean I ´m alive after all, well okay my body is but not my soul, not my personality. That all died when we throw the car over the cliff. I watch as I see my little sister walking slowly towards to what must be my grave. I cringe as I make out that her face is still red from tears. I so wish I could go to her and make it alright again. But there is no chance, me, Kayla, her sister is gone. And she’ll never come back. Most of the people are running towards their cars now to escape the rain, but I remain where I am. Like I would care if I get wet. I mean it wouldn’t matter when I would get ill and die, this time for real. All of me which was worth living is dead now anyway. Suddenly I feel a hand on my shoulder and I don’t need to turn around to see who it is. I know. I don’t even try to speculate how he did know where I am.

I got a copy of what "Why A Crip Got Ink" will look like in the magazine. Tep, I'm also going to investigate getting printed by a paying market, too. The editor told me she loved it.