The sentences (choose any or all, newest in bold):

The old man sat down at his desk in the library and wrote a letter.

In a boat sat a woman with a knife in her hand.

At a computer sat a Michael with boredom as his muse

With her leashed dog leading the way, the heiress strode out the doors, past the doorman and onto the street, where she saw the car that had been tailing her for days..

Thanks, Mike.

No peeking past this line until you've written yours.
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[This message has been edited by HSO (edited February 04, 2005).]

[This message has been edited by HSO (edited February 16, 2005).]

After a time he raised his head and with that characteristic flip that all his audience knew and loved, flung the graying hair back from his brow. Sighing deeply he raised the black knife, the sgian dubh of his forefather, and with it slit the envelope backing. His eyes widened slightly as a single gray-green leaf fell from inside; the envelope contained nothing else.

Standing suddenly, he raised his voice, "Mairgh. Mairgh! Come girl. Time to die."

I see a large, old wooden desk, deep brown in color. On top is a green blotter and a small lamp, like the kind you see on Antiques Roadshow with the crystals hanging off the shade, sits on the left-hand corner. Letters sit in piles on the left-hand side, ranging in color from yellow to heart-stopping white. On the right hand side is a lidless, shallow box a little larger than a piece of paper.

The desk has five drawers: two on each side and one shallow drawer in the middle. Inside the left-hand drawers are files containing information on everyone who's treated this man poorly. In the right hand drawers are a collection of letters to lawyers regarding lawsuits pending against these people.

And in the center drawer are pens, pencils, scissors, rubber bands and a loaded pistol.

*blinks*

*********

The desk rested on the floor like the stump of an ancient tree, wide and immobile. It challenged the ability of the floor to withstand its massive size. The decorations and trimming on its edges dated back to an era where even the old man would have no remembrance. Four legs grew up from the floor; spun in ornate designs once fashionable and bold, but which now merely bore the cobwebs and dust that years of neglect had bestowed upon it. The drawers, though sturdy, had grown stubborn and resisted movement. The surface, once varnished and smoothed to a glossy sheen, now held the scars and markings of pens and knives where man scratched his careless musings and spilled his scalding liquids. But the desk still stood, fat and heavy – strong, despite the withering habits of age and man. It survived. It looked none the better for its wear – but the withered old man had need of it still.

*************

If I say "old man" you immediately conjure up an image of what an old man is to you. If I say "desk in the libary" you see that, too... you don't need me to tell you what a desk looks like. Sure, I could say "a huge, antique, mahogany rolltop desk with scratches from a dog and a handle missing on a drawer" and that would be just fine. But if I only say desk, you the reader will fill in the blanks for yourself.

Not that I'm saying we should be lazy about describing things. I just think some things can be left to the reader to imagine for themselves.

Edited to remove the link to the site where the lyrics resided, as they also offered up 3 trojans, free of charge. If any of you clicked on it, please run a virus scan. My apologies, but McAfee didn't catch it at first and it tool me a while to figure it out.

That is strange, the light thing you mentioned. Hmm... Maybe libraries are typically dark places... with bookshelves lining the walls and covering up any windows (if there were any). Good eye, Survivor.

An ordinary kitchen knife, 6 to 7 inches long, blood on the blade and handle, as well as the woman's pale hand.

The woman, pale (as mentioned), had long red hair, curly, down to mid-back. She wore a bloodstained nightgown. (Which means I saw this scene taking place at night.) Blood oozed from a cut on her face, her forehead bruised. She had been in a nasty fight.

The boat was on a calm lake: an ordinary rowboat dinghy thing, needed paint, swollen wood about to rot away. An oar sat at the bottom of the boat in a small pool of water that had leaked in. The second oar was missing in my mind, for some reason.

That's precisely what my imagination dredged up. Why? I think it was a movie I once saw.

"In a boat sat a woman with a knife in her hand."

The boat rests on the trailer, angled so that she has to lean forward slightly in order to keep her seat. One hand, weather worn and gnarled, holds the knife. Her other hand reaches slowly toward the edge of the boat.

Falling asleep, Michael, about 30-ish and right hand resting gently on computer's mouse, falls face first into the keyboard, a can of domestic beer spilling into his lap. The combination of these two things cause an involuntary twitch of the index finger on his right hand; Michael has unwittingly depressed the left mouse button. He lifts his head, worried.

At first, there is no perceivable difference in the world. For several minutes, everything is as it should be. The television in the family room cheerfully reports that day's sensationalized news. Outside, cars race down the road, far faster than the posted 25mph speed limit.

Then, reality shifts ever so slightly. The lights flicker. The cars on the road outside are moving in reverse, going too fast than seems possible for any car in reverse; the television sounds like a 1960's experiment with backmasking. grblek, ratchas doonoud The beer, having seeped into Michael's faded blue jeans, leeches out and funnels back into the can of Keystone Light, while Michael's head crashes back into the keyboard and back up again.

Mere seconds pass as events play backward. Michael's wife enters the room, back first, and takes away the beer, walking backwards face first as she does so.

The sun, which had set hours ago, begins to creep back up on the western horizon.

Time passes faster and faster, backwards, unstoppable. Days pass in seconds. Weeks. Years.

A massive explosion runs in reverse, the mushroom cloud contracting inward.

There are dinosaurs where Micheal once sat in boredom, grazing gently on tall nutritious grasses.

...

"You're not a very good muse," Michael was finally forced to admit. "Are you sure you're telling me the truth?"

"Of course I am." Boredom replied before giving a lengthy yawn.

"Then how come I'm sitting in front of this computer and not coming up with anything to put on it? I thought muses were supposed to help people out? Give direction or something. Give me direction, will you?"

She pointed to the screen with a sigh.

"Is that supposed to be inspiration?"

"No. I don't like her. She's such a prude."

"Look, I'm going to bed. This is pointless."

Boredom gave him a wave in farewell.

But we could use your forum, Mike, if you're up for that. We'll ask Kathleen for permission to create an invite in ODAW and sign people up on your board for flash challenges. (We might even create our own little anthology of stories, like "The First Line" except different... We could get filthy, stinkin' rich! or not.)

Actually, I did mean to use my forum, but advertise it on Hatrack. My only concern is how to set it up to be fair to people in other timezones. Typically, you post a trigger word, picture or phrase, (ie the TOPIC) etc at an agreed-upon time, and everyone must email their response to the coordinator within an hour, or half hour, or whatever you decide. The coordinator then posts the flashes anonymously and sets up a poll for people to vote for which they like best, and a forum for comments on them. Then, after all the votes are in, the coordinator reveals who did what.

All well and good for those of us who live in the same timezone, but hard on others.

So, to address that issue, I am trying to find a program to let me send email automatically on a schedule, so that you, for example, could set up to receive the topic at 3:00am my time, and another person at noon my time, etc. The date/timestamp on the submittal email will let me know if you made it within the allotted time. A bit more work on my part, and others may have to wait a bit, but worth it to involve people in other countries/timezones. Also, I wouldn't expect to be a real pain about being EXACTLY on time.

What do you think?

When you freak out do you do the Chicken Dance?

(prepare camera)

A Michael is a humanoid robot, and it finds sitting in front of a computer boring as it is a higher state and quickly tires of communicating with lesser intelligence. A Michael is about 5 ft tall quite broad in the shoulder and very solidly built. It has a squarish face and dark brown hair, though this is only and rubber molding that gives the impression of hair. Anyone closer than 100 meters would be able to tell the difference. From a distance a Michael also appears to be wearing clothing, dark blue denim jeans and a black, grey and chocolate striped jersey. Again at closer inspection, anything less than 50 meters, it is plain to see that this is simply discolouration of the skin of the robot and molding to imitate the form of the clothes.

Boredom, the muse. She slouches over the desk, grey clad and silent. She pins Michael's hands to his knees. These fingers will not speak, she knows.

The screen illuminates Michael's face. Boredom has seduced him. She has glued his eyes to an unfocused blur, trapped his mind in her numbing mist.

Boredom is the antimuse, the uninspirer. She unlights sparks and numbs pain, swallows passion. Michael's shirt is no armor agains her. She came in as a moment of his inattention, capturing him until he sees her well enough to fight. Michael cannot feel the weight of her hands holding his down.

Boredom perches on top of Michael's keys, confident that she will not be displaced.

m.
no clue what she is doing

The Old Man: I see am old man, in a drab brown sports coat, and a neck tie that is poorly tied (it is offset to the side, and it is shorter then would be fashionable). He has stark white hair and is balding.

In a boat sat a woman with a knife in her hand.

The Woman: I see a women in a red evening gown (don’t know why, so don’t ask), and bright red lipstick to match her gown. She is holding the knife with both hands with the blade pointed inward, poised over her heart.

Anyone seen the dutch 15th century still life images? Quill pen, fruit and a silver cup placed on a mahogany desk, a skull staring indifferently out into the darkness of the room, an extinguished candle, smoke still curling up from its wick reminding us of the briefness of existence.

He frowned at his hands, knuckles so swollen with arthritis they could barely hold the pen. Glory long gone now eh Sir Henry? Amusing the vanities one clung to.
With deliberate care he wrote what he knew would be his last piece of correspondence.
Would Lisa even get this letter?
Would she even care?
The candle flickered in the gloom of the library, a draft had come in from one of the heavily curtained windows. The light, flickering across the face of Yorick made the skull seem to grin.
Perhaps Yorick was smiling, a lifetime in the theatre tended to give one a warped sense of humour.

Gabriel Lynxmyer is wearing a knee length black dress and white running shoes shoes. Accessories? Definitely; Chanel sunglasses, pearls and a white fur wrap. Poodle, also white, attached. Coco, the poodle, needs to be walked early in the morning and so the street is basically empty apart from a few parked cars. Why is she so dressed up so early in the morning? “Just got home darling, and no one walks Coco but mummy”.
The Doors? Wood framed double doors glazed with frosted glass. The doorman is an older man in a dark navy, burgundy trimmed, uniform. He is very proud of his position “Been working at the Cheshire for 35 years”.
The Car is a bright pink 60’s style Ford. A strange car to be tailing someone in, but beggars can’t be choosers.

Gabriel Linxmyer paused after stepping out of her hotel on that beautiful spring morning. She blinked in the bright sunshine and put her sunglasses on. Holding her hand over her eyes she peered into the empty street.
“Good morning Miss Lynxmyer”
“Good morning Fred”. Her voice was husky after a night of whisky and cigarettes. Gabriel had only just got back to the hotel. She had been at a fabulous party with some truly fabulous people, whose names she couldn’t quite recall. Gabriel was still in her black Karen Walker dress (which fortunately looked good with anything) but had put on more comfortable shoes for Coco's walkies. She flexed her toes in her Nikes, thankful for their padded comfort. Coco scratched her leg impatiently. “Yes darling, Mummy’s coming”, said Gabriel.

First I saw a woman staring vacantly holding a knight tightly in her hand with a look of deep and sinister thought.

library: the walls are lined with bookcases, it is more organised than you would expect from someone's personal library; the leather-bound books are all regular, all neat; bought more as trophies than for their contents. The walls, those parts you can see, are covered in a dark green tartan. Campbell of the Black Watch. It is night, the drapes are drawn, there is a fire in the hearth. The gilt-lettering of the bookspines glint and dance with the flames. A painting is removed from above the mantel and where it was a wallsafe stands open.

desk: A big oak desk with a green banker's lamp. Green leather inlay and stark white blotter. It has two pens in a penholder shaped (for some reason I don't understand) as a bronze hunting dog; a pointer in typical stance. There is a snifter of amber liquid and a Will laying open, red lines slashed through almost every paragraph.

Letter: The letter is short, four lines terminated with a vicious, ugly signature.

Do you think we are here simply for your amusement?

We have invested time and creative energy into this thread only to be rewarded by your authorial arrogance.

PS, just paraphrasing one of your many classic responses to another hatracker's post.

Remember?