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Saw a link off the QuestionableContent.net site about a lady who writes 55-word stories. Complete beginning-middle-and-end stories, often with illustrations. She also accepts submissions, and I was curious to see if I could write one, so...
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xnera commented on my LJ post of this and called the 100-word versions "drabblers." I've heard 100-word erotic stories called "flashers," and other fiction genres have called them "short-shorts." They're tought o write, but they do make you stretch your brain and get very specific on your word choice.
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She thought back to their first meeting, just a month ago, at the party. And their first night together, after that same party. If the whirlwind had a chance to die down, would her feelings remain so passionate?
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They met on I-80. She was driving to Minneapolis, he was headed back east. He threw his bags in back and convinced her that they were soulmates. Can’t you feel it? They stopped in Omaha. But then, four years later, she was driving north again, and he was back on I-80 with his thumb raised.
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The smell of apples reminded Jim that he was on a freight train. He thought back to the night before when he jumped in the moving car outside of Mesa.
“There must have been a reason.” he said aloud to his round, red traveling buddies.
They couldn’t forgive him for forgetting. He fell back asleep.
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He drummed his fingers against the armrest of his throne, blinking the hair out of his eyes where the crown -- which still didn't fit right, as far as he was concerned -- pushed it down. The sword was in storage, but he knew which box. Surely the world wasn't out of evil wizards already?Posts: 37449 | Registered: May 1999
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As he shuffled his feet, wandering aimlessly through the town that had not yet devoured him, he knew he was in trouble. After all, the signs were everywhere: That disgusting clown with the black balloon, the hairy guy staring at him through stolen sunglasses, they knew. THEY KNEW!
But she didn't, so he limbered on...
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She entered the room with indecision and trepidation contorting her usually serene features. The enemy seemed to strike at her from every corner, pursuing her relentlessly through the night. She was strong. She could fight. She was strong.
Her resolve broke. She removed the plastic wrap and surrendered to the soft hum of the microwave.
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She started sobbing. “No one ever asks me that. They only stare, or look away. People don’t usually talk to me. I thought my life was worthless.”
“Jeez, if I knew you’d tell me your life story, I wouldn’t have said anything. Now I’m gonna be late for class.”
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The resident was irate, yelling and screaming. The security guard had his best plastic fantastic smile pulling at the corners of his lips. When the rant was over, the guard flipped the switch, waved and the luxury SUV went squealing off into the night. Unimpressed, the guard turned and went back to reading his novel.
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Sam took the rusty scissors and cut up her credit card. She looked around her apartment and saw that although she had every Time-Life book series ever published, she did not have happiness.
“I’ll be damned if I ever use one of these plastic slavemasters again.”
After her death, she was damned for other reasons.
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One day, Jane Berg and Mark Berg had a fight.
“You never have time for our family! You’re always at work, and when you’re not, you sit at the computer and talk to people you’ve never met,” complained Mark.
“Better than talking to you, you cold fish!” said Jane.
And thus the Bergs drifted apart.
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Oh, I used to write these a lot! (I started out with the 100-wd stories, and worked my way down. ha.) I remember once, though, I was tearing my hair out, trying to get rid of those last 2 words, to get it down to 55. But all in all, it's a challenge that's great fun.
I enjoyed reading the ones on this thread!
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Logan sat there, trying to think of a 55 word story to type. He firts attempts writing a story about a veteran soldier, then about a average joe's life. Nothing seemed to work, so he ended up giving up and exitining out of the site page where he was typing and went to go eat a bagel.
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But "eek" just meaneth "also" in new tongue, Whith breeth vertuingly pushed out the longue; And so I say thy speelling funny's not, All who speell "clever" with a kayye must rot! My naarativ of Chaucer's badly donne, And so I end this for the start of funne.
[ August 13, 2005, 03:18 PM: Message edited by: Jonathan Howard ]
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The dog smelled. Everyone in the room knew it. The wonder of it was how something with such a sensitive nose could be so pungent. The canid olfactory system is, on average, ten times more sensitive than our own.
The dog merely wagged its tail, wafting the familiar scent over its pack and thought “mine.”
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