"Hillary was looking for the family bible to use when she took the oath of office tomorrow morning.."
"Darn that Dominoes Pizza....They never deliver within 20 minutes...."
I remember the all time worst piece of prose I've ever encountered, but the site rules forbid it's posting. :(
"President Kerry sat hunched over the 2000 page French proposal for joint control of the US military. He smiled to himself as he reached for his Montblanc, and with a flourish, inked is name to the document. He then reached for the phone and dialed Jacques while conferencing co-UN SecsGeneral William and Hillary Clinton. Its done, he said gleefully, the last bastion of US sovreignty has been demolished. Never again will her military offend the likes of Saddam, the Ayatollah, and Kim Jong-Il ruler of the Kerry brokered 'One Penisula government'...."
They HAD made it. Maybe the bridge wasn't as bad as her butler had feared.
Across the room, Viking, the sleek, hungry cat, stretched his long black paws out along the cushions of the black leather couch. Some times, she thought, I can't even see him there.
Viking's ear's had perked up when he heard her speak of a writing thread on freerepublic. Lost in thought, Viking was startled by the knock....
Such prodigious prosers! Keep 'em coming!
"Well, it's high time you showed..." But Percilla stopped in mid-tantrum, at the sight of the appartition - there was no other word for it - at the door.
Before her stood a man, of an age she could not guess. He was dressed in a long-length greatcoat, which might have been fine leather once, now travel-stained and worn, battering his gaunt frame in the breeze. Gaunt, though, only began to describe him. The face was drawn, with an angular point to the jawline, almost a wedge. The skin was not sallow, but gave the illusion of humanity, more of the pallor of the night workers or the mines. But it was the eyes that were the most arresting feature of this stranger: not sunken or starting, but vague and distant, as if not seeing anything near, but riveted on the opposite wall, or the horizon, or some distant phantasm that only they could see. The man had no baggage visible, no traps or satchels; only his coat, beating like bound bats' wings in the wuthering blow.
Percilla was startled, her voice catching in her throat as she tied to form even a simple question. But the man spoke first, breaking the silence with a high, nasal, patrician voice.
"Percilla? It is Percilla, is it not?"
Percilla's haughtiness returned at the familiarity. "And who, my man, might you be, at a doorstep on a night such as this?"
The man laughed, sqeaking through his nose. "Why, how so like you mother, as well! I was told to expect that. Now, Cilla, why don't you let me in, and greet your uncle properly?"
Percilla was shocked, for a moment, then composed, answered, "Uncle, is it! And how dare you take liberties, calling me that! You're who, just exactly?"
The nose-laugh again. "Ah, yes, your father's suspicion, in equal measure, I see that now. Yes, Cilla, your mother's brother, Edgar. Surely, your vaguest childhood stories recall that name?"
Percilla cautiously opened the massive door and asked for the name of the balding, mysterious man.
The handsome stranger inadvertantly let out a whistling laugh as he answered her question, "Knock....James Knock."
It was a dark and stormy night. In fact, it was a Perfect Rovian Storm.
Mary paused before accepting the fraudulent scrap of destiny. A bead of sweat formed on her sizable brow, slowly making its way to her widened eyes. She was racked with emotion...on one hand she was committing a crime, on the other hand she had an opportunity to take down the man she hated most.
But most of all, she had a chance to make Dan notice her. She pictured Dan, wearing his best blue suspenders and his freshly pressed white shirt. A small island of dark hair on a fine sea of gray reminding his viewers of his glory days. Dan would accept the forgery willingly. Excitedly. He may even smile. And he would say, "This is fine work Mary. Perhaps you and I could work together on your next assignment."
A girlish tingle ran down her spine. And she enjoyed it like a heroin addict taking his first hit after a long stint in prison. She couldn't help herself.
She took the paper. She turned away and ran...
Percilla puts down her glass of sherry, and strolls across the living room, taking care not to walk on the priceless oriental rug that still had the blood stains and taped outline of the dead body of her husband. The corpse of which had been removed earlier in the day by the coroner and taken to the morgue.
A second series of knocks was made at the door. This time more insistently. She finally reached the door, but before opening it, took a deep breath, straightened out the wrinkles on her blouse and skirt, and steadied herself for whomever was on the other side of the door.
She opens the door and standing there is a strange man she has never seen before. He is holding an umbrella over his head, which seems to be partialy broken and, judging by the man's soaked condition, somewhat useless. The man is also wearing what seems to be a dirty, well worn raincoat or trenchcoat. Judging by his unkempt condition, the man is clearly a homeless bum looking for a handout. Percilla just wants to get rid of this man. She's had a tiring day as it is.
"Wait a minute", she says to the homeless man. "I'll get my purse and give you something."
The man asks, "Give me something?"
Percilla replies "Why, yes."
Percilla leaves the door opened while she goes to retrieve her purse which is laying on the table in the foyer. She digs into it, and brings out some crumpled dollar bills. Some are fives. But some others are tens and twenty dollar bills. Without even counting out what she has grabbed, she shoves the fistful of bills into the strange mans hands and says, "There, I hope that will be sufficient. Now if you will excuse me...", and then Percilla goes to close the door on the man, but his hands full with the cash, the man blocks the closing of the door with his body.
"Um, I don't think you understand, ma'am.", the strange man says.
"Understand what?" asked Percilla.
"I didn't come here looking for a handout, ma'am." replied the stranger, handing back the bills to Percilla.
"Oh? Then what did you come here for?" asked Percilla, taking the dollar bills back.
"Allow me to introduce myself, ma'am.", replied the stranger, pulling out a billfold and showing it to Percilla which reveals a badge and an identification card
"My name is Columbo. Lt. Columbo. I'm with the Los Angeles Police Department. I'd like to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind..."
Suddenly there was a knock on the door . . . . . . .
Percilla, startled, tentatively stood up from her chair. She plodded slowly towards the door and she started again when she heard another knock.
Surprised that anyone would be knocking on her door so late and in such weather, Percilla called out, "Thurgood? Eason? Is that you?"
The door knocker's male voice responded "No," followed by something mumbled Percilla couldn't make out.
Percilla sighed and slowly opened the door. A young man in orange, with the message "Dean in '04" on his shirt, collapsed onto her floor. Dripping wet from the rain, the tattooed and pierced caller looked up at Percilla and whispered "I'm from the Howard Dean campaign and I'm here to tell you this weather is all Bush's fault, it's all Bush's fault!" With that, the young man passed out.
Suddenly there was a knock on the door . . . the rap, rap, rapping resounded throughout the vacuous, great hall of the manor, echoing seemingly endlessly.
"If I fart now," Percilla thought to herself, "I'll never hear the end of it."
Looks like your kind of story starter, Darks.
And we were all seated around the campfire,
When the leader got up and he said,
"Johnny, tell us a story!"
So Johnny got up and he said,
"It was a dark and stormy night,
And we were all seated around the campfire,
When the leader got up and he said,
"Johnny, tell us a story,
So Johnny got up and he said.
.....
Get the idea??
You need to check this out!!
ping.
I know you are a good writer. But can ytou be a good BAD writer?