Journal SolemnDragon's Journal: writing exercise: novel in 25. 27

for an added bonus, the current trendy exercise is SIX word stories, from the articles cropping up lately. I think Wired has one.

Write one of those for extra credit.

That's seven words. Dragons can't count.

25

He shot her. The hole in the back of her head was huge. She really didn't have any brains at all. He was not surprised.

6

The pain is unbearable she thought.

Once upon a time, there was a little rabbit who wanted to cross the street, but he got run over by a truck. The End.

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25:
The worn turbothruster was going to be the end of him. He finally began to realize this as he went past apogee near the sun.

6:
Homes hurtle past the shattered asteroids.

He couldn't stop writing, much like Sysyphus, whose results were slightly more productive. But he could not resist the siren song of the written word.

(Nothing like a good mixed metaphor to start your day)

How? Fish only lived in tanks?

25:

"Are we there yet?" the children all chanted loudly in unison.

The bus, driver and children were never found, and the police suspect foul play.

6:

"Look, down there, a school bus!"

They laughed. They cried. They died.

Speaking of the lameness filter:

Once God applied the lameness filter to life, nobody died young anymore. Which was a shame, since Billy Joel's song doesn't make much sense now.

He fell into a pit of despair. Whirling without end, lost without hope, he lies there still. She will find him there and save him.

He fled, blinded by tears, alone.

"I- love you," he said.

She smiled; hugged him.

"I love you."

She produced the umbrella, "It's yours"
and walked out for the last time.

With the hoofbeats of the High Guard still distant, but closing, Nara ran deeper into the forest. Her day couldn't possibly get any worst. Suddenly...

Her luck turned-- rather like milk.

He logged onto Slasdot and read a backlog of Journal Entries. Tragedy here. Comedy there. "Life's a foil!" he realized. He then worked on homework.

Six:
He'd lied, and in failing, left.

And an unrelated twenty-five:
"Nobody considers character flaws anymore," he muttered. "Least of all their own."
"And you're so perfect?"
"No, but I'm willing to admit what needs change."

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times," he read before he yawned, closed the book, and drifted into deep slumber.

"Why six word stories?" he queried.

He circumvented the constraint by hyperlinking. [byu.edu]

The word limit raced toward him like a freight train, when the writer wondered: "Does punctuation count? If not, I could finish by using morse -.-. --- -.. ."

He was going to have to write another story to get through the lameness filter. "I only hope it's enough," he thought, and pushed submit.

his view was filled with vertical lines, intersected with well spaced horizontal support. The view he provided was that vertical isn't necessarily slimming, just confining.

They think we taste like bacon. They would soon learn that we taste like their destruction, and smell like magic smoke released into the air.

Gentlemen, charge up your HERF guns.

25:
John loved money more than life. He died when his chute didn't open over Bryce Canyon. He was impaled on a hoodoo near Bryce Point.

6:
A lone puppy wanders in fog.

Hmm, the first one was a bit dark. Maybe another.

25.2:
John loved money more than life, until he met a girl who loved him more than anything. They married and bought a house in Denver.