The inspiration:
A story:
She steps through the arched doors, the voices of the guests dropping to a murmur as she moves into the grand ballroom.
A room sparkling with thousands of candle lights, reflecting off the tiny gems showered on the genius of her gown, a web of light whispering information to her, guiding her mission. A diaphanous stole about her shoulders obscuring defined arms that belie a reputation as another female of leisure.
His back is towards her. She approaches purpose in each step.
He turns, a growing smile; his eyes alighting as they look into hers.
And she is lost.
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Now, your turn.
Henry gaped for only a moment, but reflex won out quickly as he turned and shouted, “Dennis!!”
[…] is my revolt against today’s image by Darleen. I just don’t know. I need more context. What is going on here? Is that art? *starts sobbing* […]
Her steps faltered when she realized the man making eye contact was the same man she had known for one night years ago.
Yet, here they both were.
“I tried calling you after we parted” said he. “The phone number came back as disconnected.”
“Crap” she thought. “That fake phone number trick succumbed to Karma.”
“I wanted to let you know that you’d left your 4 carat diamond pendant behind.” “However,” he continued, “Since you didn’t seem to care to hear from me, I sold the pendant and bought a Corvette.”
He smiled pleasantly as he turned away to chat with another of the party goers.
He slowly moved through the empty hallways, listening for any sound. There was a low, pulsing hum that he couldn’t place. He could hear it, but it was lower than an auditory sensation and he could feel a vibration in his joints that was incrementally more painful with each slow step. As he paused near a corner there was a blast of intense heat that eddied around the corner setting his pants and shoes afire. He spun to left and beat the flames out with his hands. Covering his face with his shirt he gingerly moved around the corner recoiling from the heat and glowing light emanating from the molten glass in the foyer. He now knew what the hum meant. “GOD have mercy on us all!” He screamed as the tissue on the front of his body spontaneously ignited.
She pulled her heavy winter parka more closely about her as she gazed with sad nostalgia out of the ice-rimmed grand ballroom’s once magnificent crystal windows. What was left of them, anyway.
“They called it ‘global warming’ didn’t they?” she said half bemusedly. The ice had crept up the shorelines and into the cities with inexorable determination despite the best efforts science could bring to bear.
“Well, in their defense, that WAS where the money was to be had, wasn’t it?” His voiced dripped with derision.
She smiled, slightly. “True. And that was all that really mattered, wasn’t it?”
[…] Wombat: American Thinker Instapundit: Glenn Kessler and his own version of things Friday Fiction: Smitty/Darleen […]
The bad boy of pharma was sad cause of he didn’t have any christmas cookies.
“Oh goodness I made bad choices and now here we are in the bosom of red cup season and I have no christmas cookies. I am very sad.”
His sadness bestirred the veil what separates earthly red cup season and the angels above, and a christmas cookie angel took pity upon the bad boy of pharma.
“Here picklehead these are lemon gingerbread thumbprints!” said the angel.
“O my goodness thank you now I know the True Meaning Of Christmas!,” said the bad boy of pharma.
pls to strike the errant comma after Christmas! in last line thx
outside there are flakes of snows
this is because of Jesus
I know it
you know it