Thursday, December 14, 2006

Many more encounters

Beau Blue's via Books Inq.

Silly server switches set wrong
kept me from posting my song
a French pain in the ass
this site seems too crass,
its sole purpose to keep Google strong.

Reviewing the Bookstore Massacre

And when I asked where they kept
The Cummings and Pounds?
She pointed lemon lips at me
And spurted primly, "Paper bound
Poets are on the backside of humor.
Aisle thirty-three B!"
And that's what I found.

Copyright, 2006, Beau Blue

DBA Lehane (a dab hand at this me thinks, he posts a 500 word story every day)

The fortune tellers face went white with terror. I begged her to tell me what it was. What was so terrible about my future? She refused to explain and asked me to leave. Instead I strangled her slowly to death. You’d think they could predict I was a serial killer!

Copyright, 2006, DBA Lehane

Susan Abraham

He was dangerous. I was scared and locked him in a box. He escaped as I lay in bed, while high on cake and wine. In his hand was the box, where he said the ocean waited for my soggy end. And so I died while partying on my bed.

Copyright, 2006, Susan Abraham

Minx (of course, thanks for the post)

If I thought about her too much I was in danger of embarassing myself in public. Her wanton curves and loose morals drove me to distraction - I lost more than sleep. She was a secret best kept between the covers but editing would surely put me out of my misery.

Copyright, 2006, Inner Minx

And Jude

She said something that always stayed with me. ‘Each word is precious- like time. Each second brings you closer to the moment when death cuts short your breath, closing the book that your footprints wrote. Your words end mid sentence, mid flow- so make sure your words, your life count.’

Copyright, 2006, Jude

And lastly thanks to Frank Wilson, Skint and Minx for helping me share the challenge. I'm loving these, keep them coming.


Susan Abraham said...

Thanks Verillion.

Brian said...

Late again; the rain danced in frenzied rhythm on the cowering cobblestones. Manicured fingers rapped an agitated tempo on the polished tabletop. A check of her lips, red, throbbing scornful pout. Running towards the cafe dark coat over head. Screeching brakes, a thud of flesh hitting metal.
Late again; forever.

Thanks Susan for sending me here. Hope y'all like this.

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