The prompt for this week's challenge is:
knife
You can post any time and as many times as you'd like on this week's prompt.
Have fun!
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How to play:
DRABBLE. A story of exactly 100 words, no more, no less. Up to 15 words extra are allowed for the title. Hyphenated-words-are-argued-about. The drabble craze started in British SF fandom in the late 1980s, and the term originates from a Monty Python skit: "Drabble. A word game for 2 to 4 players. The four players sit from left to right and the first person to write a novel wins." However to be playable, the 'novel' had to be cut short. Brian Aldiss became enthusiastic about mini-sagas of 50 words, and one writer even advocated 8 words, but eventually the Birmingham University SF Society decided on 100 words. Many respected SF writers joined in the The Drabble Project and the resulting collections were sold, all proceeds going to charity. Lately, drabbles have been drawing attention again, beginning in Doctor Who fanfic and then other bigger fandoms like Trek. Variants of 150, 200, or 350 words have appeared. However, the most common form is still the 100 word drabble.
I'll not put many restrictions on the content, just make sure it is not a hate filled rampage or illegal. I reserve the right to remove any content I deem unacceptable. NC-17, Fan fiction, Real Person fiction (RPF of celebrities) or just general fiction are allowable as long as it is not defamitory. Poetry is acceptable. If you choose to write adult content, please make sure to put NC-17 or a rating in the header for your post so that others will know BEFORE reading it. (Not everyone likes to read that, and if they are warned, well, they read it at their own risk.)
Please note that I am making no money off of this. I just enjoy the challenges and constraints and have found it a useful tool in my own writing, and I wanted to share the fun with others. I will not tolerate flaming or disrespect on this blog. You are reading the content here at your own risk, so to speak, so if you come across something that upsets or offends you, please do not rage about it here. This is not the place.
You may post your drabble directly as a comment, or place a perma-link to your own blog in the comment box. Either way is perfectly acceptable, since we are dealing with a limited word count for the posts.
I'll not put many restrictions on the content, just make sure it is not a hate filled rampage or illegal. I reserve the right to remove any content I deem unacceptable. NC-17, Fan fiction, Real Person fiction (RPF of celebrities) or just general fiction are allowable as long as it is not defamitory. Poetry is acceptable. If you choose to write adult content, please make sure to put NC-17 or a rating in the header for your post so that others will know BEFORE reading it. (Not everyone likes to read that, and if they are warned, well, they read it at their own risk.)
Please note that I am making no money off of this. I just enjoy the challenges and constraints and have found it a useful tool in my own writing, and I wanted to share the fun with others. I will not tolerate flaming or disrespect on this blog. You are reading the content here at your own risk, so to speak, so if you come across something that upsets or offends you, please do not rage about it here. This is not the place.
You may post your drabble directly as a comment, or place a perma-link to your own blog in the comment box. Either way is perfectly acceptable, since we are dealing with a limited word count for the posts.
5 comments:
He pulled the knife from its sheath in a steady motion. Even after all the time that had passed, it was still sharp enough to draw blood. Placing it under the glare of the desk lamp he examined the blade, once polished, now dull from time and forgetfulness. What was that spot? Using the magnifying glass he focused on a small spot at the hilt, brown, almost black with age. Blood. Her blood. Sweat broke out on his neck as he remembered. A fine droplet trickled along his spine, mimicking the path her blood had taken so many years ago.
eotr's entry: 10-25-07
The knife was pointed, small and sharp. Silver-bladed and pearl handled. It fitted her pale hand well. He watched the indentation it made as she pressed it against the ripe terracotta-blush skin of the peach, saw how she tightened its downy covering and then slid it open, exposing its flesh, cream and rose veined, darker, richer and sweeter towards the centre of its glistening wound.
Another cut, and she removed the dripping segment and put it to his lips. As she kissed the juice from his mouth she let his fingers slip inside the cleft she had so carefully prepared.
Slowly she looked down at her bloody hand, the blade of the knife still dripping. Dark red droplets slowly forming a pool on the floor at her feet. Beside her lay the still, lifeless body of a young man, dark, wet circles forming on his white shirt, still dressed in his wedding suit. Splatters of his blood making patterns on her white lacy dress. Across the room the TV was still playing, bright images reaching out to her through the silent gloom. A tray containing champagne and glasses still on the table. How did her wedding day end like this?
Sorry this is late! LOL I'll try to catch up. This is based on the Annie Lebovitz pic of Johnny Depp laying on a bed.
He stretched his languid body diagonal across the big white bed and slowly lit a cigarette while smiling at the woman across the room. Smoke curled from the hot red tip as he pulled the noxious vapors deep into his lungs. His pocket knife lay closed and innocuous near his naked belly. The woman sighed and tried to pull her legs modestly together. Her ankles were bound to the legs of the chair by thin velvet cords. Her movement pulled them slightly tighter. His groin twitched and swelled as he opened the knife and reached out to cut the knots.
Winter’s days were in full swing, and the pain of the past cut through like a knife. Double edged, it ripped at her as it pierced and vacated of her heart, reliving the agonizing day her world crashed. During the ice storms, she let the pellets hit at her flesh, stinging and cutting, a reminder of the feeling as she knelt in the middle of the wreck, the pavement like wet marbles beneath her shoes. Bleeding and slipping, she thrashed about the surface, crawling exhausted to the door, laying for hours on the tile, waiting for the pain to pass.
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