So, Adri. He’s been posting daily snippets of fiction, whatever strikes his fancy, just in an effort to make sure there are some words written for the day. Now you folks know I tend to have this TEENY TINY HARDLY THERE AT ALL competitive streak, and often say stupid things like I could totally do that. Please note – THIS IS NOT ONE OF THOSE TIMES.
No, instead, Adri said “You should do this too.” And I said “maybe.”
And then everywhere I randomly browsed the next few days included writing prompts, or stories, or snippets, and I’ve decided that the internet is CLEARLY AGAINST ME and wants me to toss out random words when they come to me. Who am I to go against the WHOLE INTERNETS? It’s obvious that in this instance, The Internets are firmly in Adri’s corner. So, you will get random fiction on a semi-regular basis that is supposed to be every day, but it might be more like ‘whenever Adri’s consistency and straight up awesomeness shames me into an attempt at wrangling words together in a pale representation of his greatness’. Or something.
So all of that to say – here’s a snippet from a random prompt I found on The Internets. I’ll include the prompt at the bottom, so you read first, then say “Adri could have done it…” after. *grin* Please note that little to no editing has been done on said snippets either. Which means loads of tense errors and odd turns of phrase. You’ve been warned. So. Here we go.
Snippet 001: Saboteur.
The past, yellowed and curled about the edges is shred and flung helpless onto damp cement. The memory once pushed aside, now roused to freshness on a day filled with sunshine, laughter, and an embrace that buffed memory into neon reality.
Careful seeds had been planted with ease on a purple, bedazzled Sidekick. The fast paced rumor mill of gigantic proportions churned the innocent bystanders into a frenzy, hopelessly entangled by wireless half-truths and wicked insinuations tapped out in modern-day Morse Code. Rapid demand fueled the supply of voyeuristic play-by-play, letters tapped in hurried record to be picked apart faster then the ugly prom dress of yesteryear.
A new picture drips from above, seesawing lazily in autumn wind, until it became merely one of the pile, pillowed against brittle red and yellow leaves. Below it, the torn and tattered remains of tuxedo tails and what was once thought of as ruffled perfection to match big hair and bright lipstick. Now, the yellowed memory fades again under the press of fresher agony of tails and top hats, paired with ivory lace and crimson roses.
Purple bedazzled seeds bloomed into the aching bruise of crushed dreams. In the end, only the thumb-cramped saboteur is pleased.
And here’s the prompt from McSweeney’s 13 Writing Prompts – they’re odd, so they speak to me: Write a scene showing a man and a woman arguing over the man’s friendship with a former girlfriend. Do not mention the girlfriend, the man, the woman, or the argument.
Success, or abject failure – either way, it’s there. The things I do for you, Adri… (grin)