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per amica silentia lunae

or, across the ferny brae with the evil voodoo celt

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creative writing
Stolen from prehensile_wit:

Option #1:
Slowly, the rhythm took on complexity and speed, and he felt his pulse responding.

Option #2:
"Oh, blast, not another one," she complained, raising the device.

Use one of the above lines as the basis for a paragraph or more of a story and post it here.

Then post your own random quotes into your LJ and see what other people come up with.

Enough Quizzes...lets get creative.

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Slowly, the rhythm took on complexity and speed, and he felt his pulse responding. His hands flew over tight, smooth skin, barely pausing to fall with quick precise brutality before lifting again to seek another location.

It was within him now, this driving, relentless need. He reached out, and struck again and again, hearing the sound of his blows ring out.

She was sweating and crying, tears rolling down her face as she moved with each resounding slap of his hand. Her movements were without effort, without even conscious thought, driven by the impact of flesh.

Together they edged closer and closer to the pinnacle. Her wild pagan ways had brought her here, and now he tamed her, driving rebellious thoughts from her head, until there was only euphoric bliss. Heat enrobed her as she let go.

An echo resounded through the night, as he placed the drum at his feet, and the gypsy dancer fell into his arms... complete.

Nice twist to that...

Slowly, the rhythm took on complexity and speed, and he felt his pulse responding. With gradual speed, the device on his chest massaged deeply, casuing his blood to race faster and faster until with a loud popping sound, his heart shot from his chest and exploded on the far wall. "Oh blast, not another one," she complained, raising the device.

What was it about these drinks that kept the customers coming back for more? In all her years as a bartender, she'd never seen anything like it. "Oh, blast, not another one," she complained, raising the device and watching in disgust as the green, goopy liquid filled yet another glass. Sarah could barely bring herself to serve these things, much less drink one herself. But serve them she did, as the unusual drink had packed the bar to the rafters for the last month.

That was when the new owners had brought the strange, beeping, drink dispenser and the large one-gallon jugs simply labled "D R I N K". No ingredients, no logo, no brand name. It stank to high-heaven, just pouring it into the device made Sarah nauseous. She'd learned not to eat before coming to work and had last 10 pounds since the new owners took over. The Device, as she'd come to call it, would whirr and beep as the concotion travelled through its mysterious interior until the red light would shine, indicating she could raise it up and put a glass under it, which would be filled, glop by glop, by the new substance that had taken the city by storm.

Indeed, there had been an article about the drink in the paper. Go to Shelliac's, the paper said, try the new Sgorfer Omon.. And what about that name? Didn't people think it was strange? What the hell kind of a name was that? But everyone just took it in stride as if every drink had a similar name was made up of a gloopy green substance.

Then there were the new owners themselves. Bob and Jim -- with skin so pale it was almost blue and that strange ethereal look to their eyes. It was these two they should have used for elves in that movie, she thought, even their ears and teeth were pointy. If they died their almost-white hair black they'd be sho-ins for the goth crowd. Strange did not even begin to describe their mannerisms. Barely speaking and when they did it was if each individual word had been specifically chosen with regard to efficiency and style. It was as if they travelled the world with a script that wrote itself moment by moment as each piece of conversation that escaped their perfectly red lips had been crafted specifically for that moment. Each sentence so wonderfully constructed, each noun the exact and perfect description of whatever they chose to speak about. And whatever that might be at the time, what it never was, was the drink.

Oh to be sure she'd tried to pry it out of them. "So," she'd ask "what, specifically is in this stuff?" "I can't tell you," Jim would say (or was that Bob?). "Non-disclosure agreement," Bob would say (or was that Jim?). It was hard to tell the two apart.

"But it might be toxic!" she'd argue. "You will never be harmed by this" was the answer she received. Always that exact answer. You will never be harmed by this.

Sgorf uoy ekil tub!

(you know you do!)

"Oh, blast, not another one," she complained, raising the device.

Taking careful aim, Dorothy leveled the strange weapon and fired its deadly energy beam at the beast. It was blown to bits instantly.

"Darn those Flying Monkeys! Once they get a taste for Munchkin, they just keep coming back!"





Slowly, the rhythm took on complexity and speed, and he felt his pulse responding. His fingers curled and flexed in time to the macabre rhythm of lash against flesh. The pitiful wheezing of the owner of said flesh hissed in his ears.



Heartbeat thudding in his ears like a drum, the spectator tried to close it out. Tried to close his eyes, close his mind. He screwed his eyes painfully shut as the ragged gasping of the child grew more labored.





The spectator struggled against the bonds holding him in the chair. They did their job too well; all his efforts were fruitless. Hearing a muted squeak, his eyes flashed open. The child, crouched and shaking, flinched as the lash tore another stripe of skin out of her back. The spectator tried to stop his eyes from traveling downward, but they betrayed him, following the raw wounds and the blood that trickled down them, the blood that dripped dripped dripped onto the clinically white floor.



The spectator looked up at Adroch, pulse racing. "Please", he whispered.

Adroch froze, and strode over to the spectator. With narrowed eyes he knelt down beside him and asked, "Stop?" His voice dropped into a low purr. "You wish this to stop?"


Adroch stood up in an easy, languid movement. "No. No, I think not."


He bent forward, his lips brushing the ear of the spectator. "Because you wish it," he whispered.

The spectator could not help himself. A moaning gasp escaped his mouth, and a tear escaped to trickle down his cheek. Adroch laughed with a low, dark chuckle and walked away. The spectator once again closed his eyes.

"This one's done."

Adroch made an exasperated sound. "Then bring out the next one!"

And it was done.



(Not a regular reader, but this is the sort of meme I have to try...)

"Oh, blast, not another one," she complained, raising the device.

"What ... is it?" he asked, his brow furrowed and his gaze locked on the strange thing.

"I don't know," she said, turning it over in her hands. It was bulbous and unwieldy, covered in what appeared to be wholly extraneous features. Wheels and cogs sat awkwardly on the device, but none appeared to be connected to anything at all. No matter what she did to the thing, it yielded no result. What few moving parts it had rapidly became stuck or broke off. Within a few minutes, her hands were covered in machine grease and broken parts littered the counter.

"It doesn't seem terribly useful," he noted as she set the thing down on the workbench with a solid thunk.

"No shit," she replied, glaring at the thing and then her hands.

"Not much has lately," he mused.

"No," she replied. "We keep putting out porridge, but all we get back is junk." She pumped a gob of orange go-jo onto her hand to clean the gunk off, but even it seemed more sticky and obnoxious than ordinary machine grease. She had only gotten the first three layers of the gook off of her hands when she sniffed angrily and reached for the cabinet.

"What are you doing?" He asked, wary.

"Getting the pesticide," she responded, rummaging about in the open cabinet.


She sighed and looked flatly at him over her shoulder for a moment, then turned back to the cabinet. "We need to face facts." She turned around, then, a black aerosol can labeled Mythikill™ in her hand. "Our Tomten have gone insane."

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