100 Words:  Write an entry for the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest. Which is to say, the most wretched opening sentence you can commit, a veritable crime against the English language. Prose that isn't just purple, but actually bruised. Then pad it out to 100 words. My entry:

Their marriage had slowly ground down like a decrepit eighteen-wheeler shuddering to a fuelless stop a hundred yards short of a desert truck stop whose weathered sides featured a faded ad for a soda brand not produced in decades but which once might have been delivered by that very truck, back when it didn't have rusting-out tanks, flatulent air brakes, a transmission that sounded like a metal shop in heat, and an aged driver who really, truly didn't want to have to carry a ten gallon jerry can of diesel over a hundred yards of crumbling and sun-baked asphalt.

100 Words:  There's something wrong with the house you just bought...   My entry:

I closed the door behind me.  I'd just left the escrow office, handed the keys, and driven straight here.

The house was mine now.  All -- just -- mine.

It was quiet, vibratingly empty.  Eyes closed, I could hear my breath echo coolly off the hardwood and plaster.

The movers would arrive in a few days, bringing my stuff from storage.  I'd need to figure out here the furniture and boxes should go. Eventually.

I opened my eyes again, looking around.  It would never be the same.  She would never live there.

It would be my house.  But it could never by my home.

100 Words:  Today's theme is: out of the blue.  My entry.

Hugh's face was purple at rage, and he uttered a colorful oath.  "What happened?!"

"They -- they hit us -- out of the blue."  I coughed up something dark.  I was glad I was out of the sun, in the shade, for these last few moments.  "The streets -- the streets ran red with blood, and our boys, our boys were all so green.  But I swear to you --"  I couldn't breath for a moment, and Hugh went pale.  "I swear to you, by my gray head, not one of them turned yellow."

And it all went black, until I could float toward the light.

100 Words:  "... Rapping at my chamber door ..."  My entry:

It was a soft rap, a tapping at her bedroom door. 

Lana stretched languorously under the covers.  Hal was such a silly. It wasn't like he had to knock to come in the bedroom.  She chuckled in a whisper.

The rapping came again, louder.  Maybe it was Toby.  He sometimes got up at night, wanting Mommy.  She'd taught him to knock first, after that time he'd walked in on --

The rapping repeated.

Her eyes snapped open.  Memory had caught up with mind, and she remembered that Hal, and Toby, were both dead.  The firemen had pried open the car doors --

Rap-rap-rap.

100 Words:  Your free association word of the day is festival.  My entry:

"So, what do folks do for entertainment around here?"

The night manager kept right on playing cards with her friend.  "There's a bar down the street.  And there's the festival going on tonight at the church."

"Bar sounds a lot more fun."

"Festival puts on a nice spread.  Lotta folk stop there to eat, head over to Buttons for a drink after."

He considered.  Home-made cooking sounded good.  "Thanks."  He sauntered out.

The other woman clucked her tongue.  "Course, most folks need to get drunk after what goes on in that church.  Especially to strangers."

The manager shrugged again.  "He's paid up."

100 Words:  Getting caught by surprise.  My entry:

"You realize this is wrong," he said.

She smiled, and almost purred. "But so right."

A chuckle.  "I'm just saying, you know the consequences if we get caught."

"Ooooh -- 'consequences.'  Big word.  Big --"  She pressed her lips against him, and the rest of her body as well.

Several long moments, or perhaps hours, passed.  At last, breaking for air, he said, "Well.  I suppose there's no reward with no risk."

"No pain, no gain."

"Well, I hope the pain's minimized."

"Not me."

He chuckled again, then abruptly they were kissing once more, breathless, frantic.

"Ahem," came a voice from the doorway. "Am I interrupting?"

100 Words - Today's theme is the word "cowboy."  My entry:

"So!" I said, excited, clapping my hands together.  "A real ranch!  And you, a real cowboy!"  I laughed.  "Yippee-ki-yay and Lonesome Prairie and harmonicas and Marlboros and all that, ha!"

The man turned to me, every inch a stereotype of weathered skin and boots and hat and denim.  He looked me over.  "Mostly not enough sleep an' too much sweat an' blisters an' sunburn an' rain an' snow an' pretty piss-all for insurance or a pension, 'an' all that,'" he commented.

"Um -- oh."

He turned his back, facing the glowing orange horizon.  "Sunsets are damned fine, though.  Makes up for bit of it."

100 Words:  Tell us a ghost story from the ghost's point of view.

"What you want to do tonight?"

"I dunno.  What you want to do?"

"I dunno.  Hang out at the cemetery?"

"Dude, we've been doing that every night the last thirty years.  Getting old."

"What, you're blaming me?"

"Dude, it's not my fault someone lost the frickin' ferry tickets."

"That was so not my fault.  I think it was that guy ahead of us in line stole them."

 "Why would he do that?"

"He had a mean look."

"Dude had an axe in his head.  That's gonna make anyone look mean."

"It was him."

"Whatever."

Pause.  "So ... cemetery?

A chill sigh, just like every night. "Sure."

100 Words:  "Sing then, O Muse, about ... yourself!" What's your muse like?

She tickles with her tongue,
And she pokes with pitchfork tines,
Enticing with seductive voice,
And wheedling with whines.

She flees when I pursue her
But creeps up unawares,
Striking at most awkward times
With lightning-bolted snares.

Keyboard tapping mutters
And calls to contemplate
Offspring wild and wonderful
With her to procreate.

I ignore her at the peril
Of guilt and shame and woe,
For every child I didn't birth
Right when she told me so.

She's a harsh but lovely mistress
Who weeps when I refuse,
Ah, what will-o-wisps call out to me
When sings my fickle muse.

100 Words:  April is the Cruelest Month, so let's write about cruelty.

"You? You? Are you joking?"  She stared at him, then broke into a pretty little laugh.  "Oh, my God, you're not!  You actually think I'm going to the Spring Thing with you?"

"But -- but you said --"

"You can't tell a joke?  How ironic you're playing the fool."

"I'm -- I'm trying to be --"

"'Out like a lamb,' isn't that what they say?  I'm looking for something who can be lion-like all -- month -- long." She smiled, a glint in her eye.  "I think May's the month I want to be with.  Just -- go home, March.  Go home and pop some bulbs."

Her laughter echoed after him, the same as every year.

As in, several installments of 100 Words, from over my vacation:

But why is all the rum gone? - "Lead Us Not Into Temptation"

Nearly nobody noticed at first. When all the potable ethanol in the world was transformed into an innocuous, non-intoxicating liquid, as midnight rolled across the planet, the only folks who would have noticed were already drunk.

It wasn’t until the next day that the news got out, followed by claims of government conspiracies, aliens, angelic intervention, demonic intervention, global warming, and a host of other frantic explanations.

Within a few weeks, though, concerns had mellowed. Folks realized that loss of booze was, in fact, a good thing.

Now, when all the genitalia disappeared – that’s when the terrestrial mood got ugly.

Tell us about an unusual way to express your love. - "A Working Relationship"

“Sweety,” Chrys said, suddenly frozen. “If I said there was an enchanted Yao Ren scorpion on your shoulder, what would you say?”

“Um –” Roger was still. “I’d hope it was a punchline to an old family joke?”

“Don’t – move –” Her left hand slowly dipped into a slacks pocket. The scorpion twitched.

“Bad angle,” Chrys muttered, then her hand snapped forward. The thrown blade took the scorpion dead-center. It vanished in a green flash and a whiff of copper.

Roger exhaled in a slow shudder. “I love you, honey.”

She smiled, thinly, a gleam in her eyes. “You better.”

(A Donne & Donne tale, and the top-rated story for that 100 Words session)

The subject line of some spam I received began with, "Gods Do Not Drink Alcohol While Pregnant...". From what else should gods refrain? - "It Works Both Ways"

"Gods," the large, burly gent in a toga intoned thick-tongued, swaying slightly, "do not drink alcohol while pregnant."

"So no problem for you," Roger said, conversationally.

"You'd be surprised." The deity belched, profoundly. "Nothin' much beyond our powers."

The bronze krator smashed into the laurel-crowned back of his head. The deity toppled over and crashed to the floor, out like a light.

"What took you?" Roger asked.

Chrys snorted. "Finally figured out he’s the kiddie murderer. Jerk's so plastered, he didn't even get the saying right. It's 'Gods shouldn't kill babies while drunk.'"

Roger shuddered, and started dialing the cops.

(A Donne & Donne story)

Why is this man getting a state funeral? - "Hero"

He died a hero, they said. Served in the Marines -- saved his platoon and a dozen innocent hostages. Ran for office when he got out, eventually got elected to the House, finally the Senate. Became the VP twelve years later, after his Independence Day speech saved the election for the man who became President.

And, of course, there was that final, fateful day, when he took a bullet for the Pope.

He died a hero.

But none of that’s the real reason he got the state funeral. Only three people know why, and none of them were mentioned above.

Your free association word of the day is polished. - "My Big Date with a Surfer Dude"

“Are you sure about this?” Alicia asked. “I mean, blind dates are always tricky, but -- well, I’ve heard some funny things about this guy.”

“Don’t be so grim,” Sue said, adjusting Alicia’s dress. “You’ll love him. He’s so -- polished.”

At that point, the gent under discussion flew into the room atop a gleaming surfboard. His silvery metallic skin was spotless, buffed and burnished to the point where it almost glowed on its own.

Of course, it would have helped a lot if Alicia could actually see him, Sue thought. Ah, well. I’m sure their evening will be fantastic.

I actually preposted a couple of 100Words whilst I was gone, so I need to post them here as soon as I get a few minutes to breathe.

The other thing I did was start to write up some decent notes on Roger Donne and his wife, Chrys.  There's actually a whole host of characters begging to be part of their 1950s San Francisco -- Carl Grackle and his bar, Roger Arbuthnot, Mr. Grey and the Nine Tears, and others.  I need to do some research on the era, but I have an idea of how to start something. The question is, how it goes.

The funny (and heartening) thing here is that, in fact, while my impetus for the Donne & Donne couple was my current enjoyment of the Dresden Files novels, I realize I'm going for something very distinct here -- both in setting/power level (much lower power than Dresden) and in the focus of the characters (the relationship between the married couple).  This could be ... cool.

100 Words: But why is all the rum gone?

Nearly nobody noticed at first. When all the potable ethanol in the world was transformed into an innocuous, non-intoxicating liquid, as midnight rolled across the planet, the only folks who would have noticed were already drunk. It wasn’t until the next day that the news got out, followed by claims of government conspiracies, aliens, angelic intervention, demonic intervention, global warming, and a host of other frantic explanations.

Within a few weeks, though, concerns had mellowed. Folks realized that loss of booze was, in fact, a good thing.

Now, when all the genitalia disappeared – that’s when the terrestrial mood got ugly.

100 Words:  Today's Nathan Fillion's 36th birthday. Your word is shiny.

They made a statue of him. It was sculpted by a man who owed him his life. It was paid for – in materials used, tempering, coating – by a thousand contributors across the System: farmers and ranchers, smugglers and thieves, whores and just plain folk.

They didn’t do it because he was some sort of mythic hero, or civic idol. They did it because he did what was right for his people, and he kept his word, and he delivered the goods. He kept on flying. And those are gorram rare qualities in the ‘Verse.

And that metal-polycrilic statue was shiny.

100 Words:  Deadline At Work

“Help Desk.” The voice sounded dead on the line.

“My computer’s all messed up,” Bob shouted. “I need someone here, right away.”

“I’ve opened a ticket. Someone will be by before lunch.”

“I need someone here now – this spreadsheet’s got to go out by 9. Without that bottom line, I’m dead.”

“What's the problem?”

“I don’t know – if I knew, I’d be in IT, wouldn’t I? Look, the computer has rebooted itself three times today, and now the monitor’s not showing anything. I –”

The line went dead. The wall clock ticked to 9 and stopped.

Bob was out of time.

100 Words:  Welcome to the "Ridiculum."

They pecked away at Graham for hours, throwing barbs and taunts, pointing out in excruciating, horrifying, piercing detail all of his failings, flaws, follies, frets, and faults, flaying him with words as he sat there, on a hard wooden chair under the spotlight.

At first he protested. Then he raged. Pled. Wept. Ultimately, he sat, silent and still, eyes staring off, breathing in quiet, fitful gasps.

When it was complete, and the had others filed out, Mr. Grey walked over, stopping just outside the spotlight. He smiled, softly, and tossed the pistol into Graham’s lap. “You’ll probably be wanting that.”

100 Words: Write a sequel to something written here by someone other than yourself last week. [This is sequel to "We Shall Meet Again"]

Harry paced back and forth, nervously. Rather than returning home, he’d half-run, anxiously, directly to the appointed spot, mere five minutes tense walking. He could not wait, he could not rest, he could not even pray. He could only fret, pacing, wringing, sweating.

Belinda – so cool. Overwhelmed, certainly, but why could she not answer? Why? And – what of Mary? I’d expected tears, but that stony mask -- Did I choose aright? I cannot wait – I must know -- this suspense – it is like to – it is –

The massive coronary took him in seconds. They found him there, then walked silently away.

100 Words: Your word of the day is calamity.

A long, hellish day at the office, under his pipsqueak boss, and now he had to “walk the dog,” rather than sitting back, relaxing.

Fine. He was a married man. He could take orders at home, too.

It was enjoyable at first. Then … the cat appeared.

The next thing he knew, the dog was dragging him along. He could barely keep on his feet – and then he realized, to his alarm, the dog and cat had stopped, and were watching with ill-concealed amusement as he stumbled, fell, rolled ...

“Jane!” he cried out in pain and frustration. “Stop this crazy thing!”

100 Words: "Beware the Ides of March!" On this day in Shakespeare, Julius Ceasar had a very surprising day at the office. Write about the middle.

He picked up on the fourth ring. “What?”

“Hey, Jules, how goes?”

“Busy, Brutus. And you?”

“Got a minute?”

“Crap. No, I’m prepping a presentation for the board. You know they’re going to ask me again this afternoon to take the promotion.”

A pause. “How about a working lunch then, with the rest of the team? Go out for a bite, chat, talk the reorg over a salad or something.”

“Sure, whatever. I’ll meet you all out front on the steps at noon.” He hung up. Schmoozing with backstabbers like those guys was murder. Well, once he was the boss ....

100 Words: I finally understand why you shouldn't run with scissors. What else should you not run with?

“Coming through! Make way! Hot soup! Man with a baby!”

Art wove through and between the crowded office workers, who parted magically before him and his bellowed exhortations and, of course, his burden.

Two women from HR were on their way to the bathroom. They jumped back as he passed. “I’ve heard of running with scissors,” Kay said, “but was that Art with --?”

“-- A sword?” Sara tried to following him in the milling crowd. A bit of fluorescent gleam flashed off something down the way, maybe around Finance. “Yeah, I think.”

“Huh. Cool.”

“He didn’t seem too happy about it.”

100 Words: ...around the bushes and up a tree...

“Around the bushes and up the tree,
To grandmother’s house we go …”

The little ones sang the song with gusto, even though their grandmother really lived up in the attic of a brownstone in the City, and the nearest tree didn't come anywhere near the eaves, and the only bushes were a half mile away in the park.

Nevertheless, it was a cheerful tune, and it make the sparrow pull our chariot all the harder for it. We could have flown ourselves, of course, but we live in a fairy ring out in Connecticut, and the little ones tired easily.

100 Words: You go into your kitchen in the morning and there's a note next to your coffee maker. What does it say?

“I loaded the coffee.”

That’s all the note beside the maker said, a tender reminder of her love. She’d known I was getting up early in the morning, working from home, stressed and cranky and angry and irritable – and desperate for caffeine.

She'd done it after I’d gone up to bed. The special caramel blend bought a few weeks back. Filtered water from the fridge rather the tap, just to taste the better.

It was so quintessentially her, I wondered why I’d strangled her the night before.

I sighed. I’d need to drink some coffee before tackling that particular problem.

100 Words: Something fundamental has changed...

God and the Devil sat at the poolside bar, one sipping mojitos, the other a G&T.

“Okay, but it’s got to be something big.”

“Limitless wealth?”

“Greed has no bounds. We both know that.”

“Animals talking?”

“You’d do that to poor animals?”

“How about … gender inversion. Men become women. Women become men.”

A long, pause, quiet consideration. “Okay, twenty says the world’s a smouldering cinder by the end of the week.”

“Seven days? How ironic. Fine. Twenty says by Christmas they have World Peace.”

“Talk about ironic. You’re on.”

Remarkably enough – or perhaps not – neither of them won their bet.

So I'm trying a new daily exercise -- 100 Words. A topic is given, and you have to write precisely 100 words around it. Regulars get to post on the blog; visitors can do it as a comment to the topic post. Nice.

I'm going to see if I can keep it up on a daily basis before I ask for Full Membership. I already did one entry; amusingly, I started writing it in Word, finished about where it felt right, and hit the word counter ... and got 100 on the nose. Must be an omen ...

Anyway, I'll be cross-posting the stuff back here, too, for my own records, but I recommend checking out the site and even (if one is so inclined) pitching in.

100 Words: Spicy

“So – you like it … different?”

“Spicy.”

“Hmmmmm.”

“You have a problem with that?”

“No … though … too hot might be … well -- too hot.”

“Spiciness is in the eye of the beholder.”

“I thought that was an Anti-Magic Beam.”

“You are such a geek.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So … back to spicy?”

“Spicy. Mmmmm.”

She leaned forward. “Will … this do?”

His nostrils flared. “That … will do ... nicely.”

She sprinkled a bit of paprika atop the casserole. Steam carried the scent through the room.

“Now,” she said, a slight smile on her lips. “Let’s talk about dessert.”