Five words-per-post story

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  • FinsburyParkCarrots
    FinsburyParkCarrots Seattle, WA Posts: 12,223
    of internationally formidable, fearsome reputation.
  • olderman
    olderman Posts: 1,765
    edited February 2009
    Indeed, his certain inescapable destiny.
    Post edited by olderman on
    Down the street you can hear her scream youre a disgrace
    As she slams the door in his drunken face
    And now he stands outside
    And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
    He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
    What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
    Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
    And his tears fall and burn the garden green
  • justam
    justam Posts: 21,415
    Now was the time to
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  • Kat
    Kat Posts: 4,973
    recover the paintings stolen in
    Falling down,...not staying down
  • JordyWordy
    JordyWordy Posts: 2,261
    good faith, lest he be
  • olderman
    olderman Posts: 1,765
    imprisoned in impressionism, hopelessly thickened
    Down the street you can hear her scream youre a disgrace
    As she slams the door in his drunken face
    And now he stands outside
    And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
    He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
    What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
    Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
    And his tears fall and burn the garden green
  • FinsburyParkCarrots
    FinsburyParkCarrots Seattle, WA Posts: 12,223
    in the sludge of fauvism,
  • JordyWordy
    JordyWordy Posts: 2,261
    disfigured in cubism, or worse
  • FinsburyParkCarrots
    FinsburyParkCarrots Seattle, WA Posts: 12,223
    a critic, like Brian Sewell.
  • deadmosquito
    deadmosquito Posts: 729
    That infernal Sewell, with his
  • DeLukin
    DeLukin Posts: 2,757
    misogynistic views of the world.
    I smile, but who am I kidding...
  • justam
    justam Posts: 21,415
    No! That wasn't a fair
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  • deadmosquito
    deadmosquito Posts: 729
    assessment of the incapacitated man.
  • justam
    justam Posts: 21,415
    It WAS his car, and
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  • Kat
    Kat Posts: 4,973
    Ernst removed Brian's gag reluctantly.
    Falling down,...not staying down
  • justam
    justam Posts: 21,415
    He knew that there'd be
    &&&&&&&&&&&&&&
  • olderman
    olderman Posts: 1,765
    a cacophony, splitting the night
    Down the street you can hear her scream youre a disgrace
    As she slams the door in his drunken face
    And now he stands outside
    And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
    He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
    What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
    Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
    And his tears fall and burn the garden green
  • justam
    justam Posts: 21,415
    but he was somewhat curious
    &&&&&&&&&&&&&&
  • Kat
    Kat Posts: 4,973
    Multi-millionaire Ernst Schiller arrived in the dead of night. Only the sound of a designer leather shoe on gravel echoed across the car park. Bracing himself against the freezing East London docklands winds, he moved towards the door of an 1936 chocolate coloured Jaguar inside which, bound and gagged was Brian Sewell, art critic muttering expletives under his breath.

    Ernst was now mulling his grisly task. He took little in calling his only hope. With axe in one hand and a heavy heart he cut through the roof of the motor, shouting, "Abstract Expressionism ... get your labels RIGHT if you want to impress Princess Margaret's school chum.

    Why would you steal Stone Gossard's plaid shorts after the House 'o Blues concert? Was that six words?", he muttered under his hoarse voice for muttering had replaced stuttering Bu, bu, bu, bu, but not always. Sometimes the stutter would get so bad, that an ambulance would arrive late.

    Lest he forget the captive, children at the school by the delapidated playground, the seesaw rocking, firey painted nostrils splayed, crying out for help. But Ernst Schiller hadn't planned on St George to wander upon those same damp moors as the spirit of his lost cousin Ethel, whose pale skin reflected an eerie moonlight that made people wonder about demons. Yet here was St George, holding fast his Dragon Sword so ready to reveal its power and devotion to what's long been considered the most sacred yet dark of knowledge.

    So, where do we go? Enrst asked himself. He had once been a dragon slayer, alchemist, soothsayer, medium and magus But now he felt unsure about his past, his future, even though his powers were as certain as his DNA. He'd need them, his millions and his art history knowledge in order for him to keep growing as a person of internationally formidable, fearsome reputation. Indeed, his certain inescapable destiny.

    Now was the time to recover the paintings stolen in good faith, lest he be imprisoned in impressionism, hopelessly thickened in the sludge of fauvism, disfigured in cubism, or worse a critic, like Brian Sewell. That infernal Sewell, with his misogynistic views of the world. No! That wasn't a fair assessment of the incapacitated man. It WAS his car, and Ernst removed Brian's gag reluctantly. He knew that there'd be a cacophony, splitting the night but he was somewhat curious
    Falling down,...not staying down
  • FinsburyParkCarrots
    FinsburyParkCarrots Seattle, WA Posts: 12,223
    about his lexis and syntax

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