five

Unforgiveable
(93 words)

Even bread would taste good. There was no one in the bakery.

Alvin wore shorts. He wanted a caftan like a sultan. Cardinals get robes, maybe shorts underneath.

Entranced, with avariciousness, Alvin pressed his nose to the glass. Glass conducts heat. Metal like gold is a better conductor. His pockets were empty.

A man paused beside him. Alvin looked hopeful and groveled until the man snorted, loudly, not languidly, and laughed.

Enervated, Alvin’s shoulders deflated.

Flatulence was not forgivable. Expatriation should be, but wasn’t. Stealing was, if the thief said contrition. Alvin smiled.

giraffe

five, reminds me of the opposite of the man sent to jail for stealing a loaf of bread???

Qsilv

Tea for Two (or three or four or more…)

She fingered the invitation… gilt edged, heavy cream parchment. He’d carefully outlined flowers on the reply card. So tempting to color – perfectly between the lines, of course -- before returning it. He’d notice. She shrugged. He wasn’t quite Sybil’s property yet anyway. She twitched her caftan, reached languidly for watercolors, smiled.

Expatriation isn’t permanent; castration is. The younger women -- still at the entranced-by-avariciousness stage -- wanted their toys to inflate, deflate, grovel on command. Play at being tables, produce flatulence and cringe, all at an enervated conductor’s wave of their slender fingers….

giraffe

Quicksilver. What an excellently clever use of the 10 words. Hats off to you.

Qsilv

Bonus built from Midnight Poet’s own, post #14 –


So there we were, him supposedly in total control, and he blows it. We’re dressed to the max. I’m in pony-girl silks, feathers and leather, bristling fake mane down to my knees, flourishing a tail toward the skies. He’s in full regalia, caftan, long lunge-line whip with a cute red tassle-tip… but… no gloves.

He reaches out with one of those languidly sweeping conductor’s gestures – I watch, wide-eyed, entranced by inevitability – and he lays his hand right on the fence’s top rail!

Now, any county-bred person would’ve been at least SUSPICIOUS of that narrow band of metal wrapped along the wood’s edge. But he’s city, through-and-through. This whole country-estate thing? Fantasy. Wish-fulfillment. Figures… he only knew about wires. Ok, and TENS units. Well he knows now.

He was so wholly unprepared that instead of the mere yelp and yank I’d have given (and perhaps a wholly unladylike, not to mention unponylike, string of colorful expletives), he’s leapt a full foot upward, landed on his own whip, missed his balance, and wound up down on the ground, hairy legs sticking out – a strong suspicion of more than mere flatulence in the air and staining his linen.

I’ve got to get my level of grovel just right, subdue the smirk (at least enervate it), offer grace, a magician’s bubble, a bridge back to Neverland… all while fighting to control my breathing, so he won’t hear the giggles pent up in there. Worse, hear the part he actually fears… loss of respect. Well… loss implies there was some to begin with.

But I’m in the game. Deep. Committed. We’ll leave out which of us OUGHT to be committed…

He’s in it because he believes in it, hopes for its truth, yearns for …something. He thinks he’s after sex and thrills and, er, did I mention sex? Right. He’s really in it for power. Avarice. Admitting that, however, isn’t in his repertoire. Yet. And he’s not big on the sense-of-humor department. Yet. If-ever.

I’m in it because… well, even when I recognize it for what it is, I still yearn… for… feeling. It’s all about feelings in the end. Isn’t it?

Get it wrong, I’m out. Get it right but only partly, odds are he’ll pack me off to his other estate… south of France, was it? Hm… not a bad place to live as an expat… but…

“Keeps horses from cribbing” I whisper, conspiratorially … and… miracle! …he actually begins to look interested, less deflated… a shade…

It’s all about feelings….

giraffe

TEA FOR TWO (or three or four or more…) by Quicksilver bastardized by giraffe. Once again I didn't count words.

It's all about feelings - if you're smart. If you truly want to be an architect or an enlightened guru or a sucessful poet, you will. Desire preceeds fulfillment. Sybil understood that.

She fingered the invitation… gilt edged, heavy cream parchment. Jason was having a preview party for his first solo album. He’d carefully outlined flowers on the reply card. That was his way of saying "My dreams are coming true." Sybil thought he was an idiot, but a fool and their money are easily parted.

Jason wanted, desired and strove to be a rock musician. So he did. Sybil thought that was a vacant, adolescent desire to live in Disneyland forever. That made him fair game for delusion. She had this thing almost like a dominatrix going with him.

She glanced back at the invitation. So tempting to color – perfectly between the lines, of course -- before returning it. It would be a phony gesture. He’d notice. But if he takes the bait? It's a 50-50. She shrugged. He wasn’t quite Sybil’s property yet anyway. She twitched her caftan, reached languidly for watercolors, smiled and started painting smiley faces in the leaves of the childish flowers he drew.

"These Americans..." she moaned. She could now freely return to East Berlin, but her angers kept her here. "Expatriation isn’t permanent; castration is." she whispered with each smiley face she drew, All she wants is a share of his money.

The younger women (groupies) still at the entranced-by-avariciousness stage -- wanted their boy-toys to inflate, deflate, grovel on command. Even they know that a man is easier controlled by guilt than by love. You have to play mommy and daddy games. Play at being tables, produce flatulence and cringe. You just play them in the palm of your hand.

At the party he burst out with "I love you, Sybil and I love your smiley faces so much! Will you marry me?"

"Jason," this speech was prepared, "I love your flower drawings, too. Almost childlike. Of course I'll marry you."

As the crowd applauded and they kissed and embraced, he whispered to her "You should know, Sybil. I have aids.

Life was never the same for either one of them. Jason died and Sybil got some money. All at an enervated conductor’s wave of their slender fingers….

Qsilv

..hm.... interesting.... sure not how *I* was seeing my Tea for Two story...

for one thing, Sybil was not the protagonist in it...
and for another, the protagonist I saw in my mind was rather whimsical, benevolent even... not cold-heartedly calculating nor unappreciative of what each person in the tea-party could offer to the others.


The value in having someone else edit your stuff, however, is that even if they bring their own bias into it, at least it makes clear where confusion might occur.


;>

giraffe

Q, When you said that he wasn't quite Sybil's "property" yet, that sent me off in that direction. If I said that Sybil was't quite his "property" yet, that would have changed the whole tone.

Qsilv

...and if Sybil is someone else, on whose behalf he had sent the invitations out, including one to our protagonist?

giraffe

Q, 5 different people could read the same 93 words with a convoluted word list and get 5 entirely different interpretations. I didn't see any character as being the protagonist or antagonist. I just built on it the way I envisioned it. Who knows? Maybe Sybil sent the invitation to herself.

Qsilv

...lol.... that wicked wench...d'ya think?!


;>

giraffe

Can't resist this one. Have fun.

Sybil got off the train in New London. She was about 100 miles from home, but she still wore sunglasses and a wig to keep from being recognized. If Jason or any of his friends recognized her, that would be like social suicide. Her goal was to mail the invitation to herself, postmarked from his zip code.

After she dropped it into the box and got back on the train, she smiled. "I'm now invited to his party next week." she giggled. Just to prove that the invitation was genuine, she included one of Jason's flower drawings inside.

Two days later when she was at home, the mail arrived. She fingered the gilted edges on the card, then read the inscription. She'd written "Sybil, I love you. Will you please come to my party?" and the flower drawing was just begging to be colored in.

She joyously filled it in with smiley faces and returned the RSVP. "I'll be there, my love" she wrote.

It wasn't until Jason recognized his own drawing that it dawned on him. "This is Sybil the obsessive stalker." Sure, they had a great weekend in Cannes, but enough is enough.

So Jason went to Danbury wearing sunglasses and a wig to send himself a letter from her. It said "Dearest Jason, I can't make it to your party after all. I'm feeling very ill. Please include me in your future entertainments. Love, Sybil.

Jason got his letter back the next day and mailed it to Sybil saying "Darling, I can't stand being without you. Here are some more flower drawings."

"I'll get him." she thought when she got his fake letter response. "Two can play this game."

So the night of the party, Sybil waited until 11:00. She calmly walked up to his door and rang the bell twice. Jason answered and saw her there wearing nothing but a transparent raincoat with glitter all over her face.

"Hey, Babe, let me in. It's partee time!"

Jason said "Wait here a minute while I inform the other guests." He returned with a letter he had written to himself. It said "Jason. Never let me into your house again. If I show up, just call 911."

Sybil saw that the postmark was from her area. She started crying. "What if I wash off the glitter? Can I come in? I have the invitation in my car."

"No, Sybil. Go home now." As she walked away sobbing, Jason was thinking about the next letter from her that he would compose. Something like "Dear Jason, You are such a studly hunk....

Qsilv

(smiles) clever idea on the tit-for-tat mailings...

...imnsho, any character (especially one named Sybil) should have some depth beyond easy tears and a mean streak.

Somewhere in there you need to sneak in aspects that make the reader actually care about, identify with, LIKE the person... enough to want to spend some time with them... share some of yourself with them!

giraffe

Q, I get what you're saying. Sybil might be a crazed witch but not an evil witch. I'm just having fun with your word-plays. Sybil was an oracle in Greek mythology. So was Cassandra. Prophetesses, both. They believed Sybil but not Cassandra. The Oracle at Delphi gave the final word. I'm just playing with that in modern terms - as you obviously are.

five

Coming of Age
(418 words, based off Q's Tea for Two (or more)

Little girls, dolls and tea parties, all suburban 50s, now, not old enough to think about driving. Except Isabel did. She used to want desperately to drive her own car. She could feel speed even secured in her car seat. She was older in her head than her small frame showed. She mixed up memories from her other life with the current one. Sometimes, the man behind the wheel was a chauffeur.

She fingered the invitation… gilt edged, heavy cream parchment. Appropriately elegant. She smiled at carefully outlined flowers on the reply card, a detail her newest acquaintance no doubt meant her to notice. He was sweet beyond his reputation.

She considered coloring perfectly between the outlines, a nod, before returning it. It seemed forward, especially considering Sybil’s whisperings the other day: “It’s clear he fancies me. I’m flattered. I could do worse.” Sybil was calculating.

Why not? It had been Sybil whispering, not him. He wasn’t quite Sybil’s property, yet. She twitched her caftan, reached languidly for watercolors and smiled again.

Trees blurred by, shades of green, and spots of yellow and white where there were signs. They were moving quickly, now; this part of the road had no turns to slow them down. Isabel played with the buckle on across her belly. Oh, to not be tied down, If only she could fly.

A horn sounded in front of her.

The room was simpler than expected, though with the obligatory archway and chandeliers.

The invitation had not been exclusive. Sets of men and woman clucked at each other. Expatriation isn’t permanent; castration is. The younger women -- still at the entranced-by-avariciousness stage -- wanted their toys to inflate, deflate, grovel on command. Play at being tables, produce flatulence and cringe, all at an enervated conductor’s wave of their slender fingers….

Disheartening. She wondered if he had detailed the others’ invitations in a charming way; they probably knew better than to reply with their own encouraging marks. Embarrassing. But the damage was done.

She settled in the center with the few others she recognized and carefully balanced her tea cup.

Sybil was whispering again. “Lovely to see you, my dear.”

“You, as well.”

“Unexpected, though?”

“Not at all.”

She sensed his cultured scent before he spoke. “Ladies, welcome.”

She looked up, then thought better and turned back to her tea cup.

He touched her shoulder. Sybil’s eyes widened like an owl’s. “You’ll stay, I hope,” he said.

The car was on them, the only thing in view.

ladyhwin

Hmmm.... still trying to get something in here before it's over. I like the word list...

five

The Fence
(418 words, after Midnight Poet)

“I’ll take you way; he won’t be able to stop us.” He liked to imagine the two of them in a foreign land, where they only knew each other and her father could not order her to stay away from him. Luckily, she disobeyed. “I’m tired of sneaking around.”

Her father had no reason to dislike him. He was smart, mostly. He did not steal or use drugs. But he looked liked he might. Appearances were enough for her father.

She played along. “If I refuse?”

“You wouldn’t be able to.” He leaned his weight on one leg, winked and smirked.

Oh, to test his cockiness. She pointed to the fencing. “It’s electric.” They both knew conductors are materials that allow electric current to pass through them. He always took a dare.
They both knew conductors are materials that allow electric current to pass through them.

“Go on, then,” she said, “if you’re sure you’re man enough.” She held her fingers near the smooth wire. There could not be much current; it was designed to keep the animals in, not kill them. “I dare you.”

It was her he wanted to touch, not the silly wire. He would play her game.

He joked: “Who’s going to be the one shocked?” He grabbed her wrist and pulled her hand clear of the fence. The skin to skin connection jolted them. Thanks to his avariciousness, he has just learned that his body can be a conductor of more than a minor electrical current. She twisted free.

“Do I get a kiss?” he asked.

She looked away and rubbed her wrist. “If you survive.” She point to the wire. “Go on.”

“I want a long kiss, with everything.”

She pouted. “You’re stalling. And do more than touch. You have to hold on more than a second.”

“I hold too long, and it’ll hold me.”

“It’ll kick you off.”

He leaned close to her, without touching. “With everything.” Then, he reached his hand out and grabbed the wire.

Funny, the enervating quality of electricity, that causes one to deflate with flatulence.

At the foot of the fence, he lay prone by her feet, hair on end, and she stood entranced, fighting the urge to point, laugh and say "Told ya so." If she did she would have to grovel later, when he was in a better position. She could see him now, changed into a silk caftan, languidly planning her expatriation. Better to remain silent. She would give him his kiss later.

Dragon

hehe five, That reminds me of a story my boyfriend told me about holding an electric fence. He convinced his buddy and his wife (at the time) to hold hands in a line with him and he grabbed the wire. They learned that when you do that the current becomes stronger as it passes through more people so what might have been a little shock for one person ended up knocking the last person (his wife) right on the ground. She was very angry with him. I say if you're dumb enough to do that in the first place you deserve what you get. But then I'm not very fond of his ex. hehehe

five

Dragon, at class breaks in high school physics class (oh so long ago), we sometimes would form a human chain, one end touching a Van de Graaff generator (I think that's what it was called), and the other end of the chain shaking hands or tapping kids in the hall, giving them an unexpected jolt. Such geeks we were.

Doug

Ok, I'm in finally...Had a long weekend with the wife and kids which I enjoyed immensely. A tad over at 105, but I won't change a thing. Of course it's something pretty off the wall or normal for me. No title

Bright blue orbs energized by enervated ions dancing crazily through a mystic portal only deflated by the mist hanging like drapery along the outer walls. Flatulent as they languidly disappeared emitting a “pop” making it sound like conductors’ wands whipping…back and forth…a crescendo…then silence…a peaceful scenario…familiar like the site of grandma’s caftan nestling her as she rests.

Once can only be entranced by the sheer delight of watching the orbs float, come together in one brilliant arc of light and then expatriate themselves into tiny liquid globules of dim beauty. Avariciousness…groveling…drooling to se the show over and over again.

I stepped forward and joined them…