I'm a professional cynic, but my heart's not in it.

After several abortive attempts to create something... anything... for my mini art project I realised that creating anything other than with these magical mystical things called words was likely doomed to failure, doomed I tell you, DOOOOOOOOOOMED.

Ahem.

I mean, I attempted to draw something when I was lucky enough to have a pen and paper and the right headspace hit me. But afterwards I thought, "Well if I wanted to draw something that a crazed seven year old who was building up to serious issues in later life would draw, that's it." so I abandoned that.

Thus instead I'll provide my 'art' in my usual medium of terrorism; and resurrect something I tried to do ages ago that ended up the way of most of my projects.

Thus, briefly, I bring back to life my 100 word stories just for you lovely people...



For karohemd

"Voila!" declared the chef, as the mouth-watering aroma of fresh food wafted through the kitchen. "Crab and scallion cream cheese stuffed wantons, fried with water chestnuts and sweet chili dipping sauce."
"It looks delicious." replied his assistant, "But..."
"Wait!" the chef continued "With fresh greens, carrot strings, sunflower seeds, croutons and fresh tomato with a blend of olive oils."
"But..."
"AND" interrupted the chef "Dessert; roast mango with honey and exotic fruits delicately complimented with a dribble of fresh cream."
"But..."
"But? Isn't the meal perfect?"
"Of course, just one concern."
"What?"
"Isn't that a big extravagant for a mousetrap?"

For dennyd

"Can I ask you a personal question?"
Her eyes said so much more as those long dark lashes flickered, a smile curling at the edge of her lips.
She'd been the first thing he'd seen when he entered the club. Tall, long dark hair, a vision that moved with the grace of a panther all wrapped in skin-tight latex that left very little to the imagination.
"Sure." he said finally, he hoped she didn't notice the quiver in his voice, the nervous eagerness at this chance to speak to this angel.
"Do you always walk around with your flies undone?"

For _ebb_

Darkness like a clinging web falls once again over the rows and rows of silent beds.
Attendants and visitors have left for the day.
Only the animals stir, tiny eyes regarding the cold headboards and blankets.
The sleepers never complain about scurrying visitors, they dream on in their soundless rest.
No words, no sound, no movement and never a sleepwalker.
Though fantasies spun tell of those that rise and stalk, the slumbering tenants seem content.
Perhaps they’re waiting. Perhaps they dream.
They’ll never tell.
The shells of what once sang and danced rest peacefully.
Under a blessing carved in stone.