She is the dark that crowds around and keeps your eyes from opening before you sleep. She is, she was the brave one that kept the snakes in grammar school.

She is the one you see when you close your eyes. She is, she was a girl you did not love, but cannot forget. She is in the heart of hearts. She is the one with God's real name tattooed on the inside of her thigh.

She is, she was a voice behind the screen. She is, she was, something somewhere in-between. She waits, she does, deep in your dreams.

She is enigma.

If she could just lay there...Stop moving so the words would keep sliding off her hips. She never understands, never tries to either.Slowly spreading her moon colored thighs and closing them at the slightest caress from my purple thoughts. She just smiles and moans raping my ears. I can smell her hair all the way from my dark corner . She arches her back, cutting my breath like smoke...licking her lips because I can't...while the beads of sweat on her skin burn off my eyelids. She lets her fingers sink under her skin...She hates me.
...and I can't quit.

Eh...I thought I'd try.

*edit: 99 words....I've decided to keep it at 99. That word just bothered me.

I like it, babe.

This is probably just over one hundred words, but I like it.
~~~~~

She Is ...

Apocalypse. He'd been hiding from her red-orange-fire hair all his life, living deep below ground. Once, in his youth he'd sat, reading and considering how likely it was that any second a bomb could fall nearby, and incinerate him before he even knew what happened. So he made a deep dark concrete room, decided to never come out. The succubus! She's... so glossy on the page, --airbrushed but who fucking cares? He was upstairs for a second. And when the flames peeled his flesh from his bones, he did have time enough to think how like fire her hair was, before his eyes burst, and his brains boiled in his skull.

*Smiles real big*
Thank you :D

Your's is just so tasty...
I'll see if I come up with something :)

Aww, fantabulous!

Chu are most welcome. And I'm sure you can. I get inspired by little things, all the time.

(I'm bored with a twitchy keyboard. Figured I'd write something from personal experience)

--
She is the nostalgia of a future self. A blind emotion controlling the light in the room, bending it to fit the rhythm she dictates. She is the child with the gun.
Dancing on the strings of her puppets as they're strewn across the floor, she animates them with promises of life and lust. She lures their frames to the fires with caressing whispers, watching them tumble into their ashen graves; missing them already.
She is the careless spark surrounded by fuel.
She walks into her darkness with her head held high but filled with questions, dragging the strings behind her. She misses those frames.
--

105 words.

Throne777

That is very beautiful. I enjoyed, muchly.

<3

She is the blood running throgh your blood.
She is the wind on your face, blowing your hair around.
She is the beautiful song that plays in your mind.
She is the one who feels your heart with love.
She is life... and death.
She's everything.


I hope you liked that, I thought I'd give it a shot.

Ooo This thread strikes my fancy.

100 words aye?
hmm... Lets see what I can produce here:

-----------
She is moving across the room; her arms seem afloat in a river of her reverence. My eye catches her and tracks in the most feral of ways. The alcoholic beverage in my hand begins to feel especially cold as everything else in the room fades away. I slowly begin to follow her through a sea of inconsequential bodies.
Wait!
My feet aren't touching the floor; my god, we are both floating above the crowd.
Stop!
She's drifting into a strange man's arms. There is a glow about him; god like, overbearing.

I am pulled backwards by gray hands.
(Passed 100 )
The crowd retrieves me.
Makes me one of them.
-----

That was fun.

Nice thread Annimi.
How are you?
!m

I didn't go to 100 words but that was all I had, but if it wasn't for this thread I would still be suffering from writers block. So thanks.

Thought I'd give it a try...



SHE IS.... (115 words)

She is brazen, she is volitile. She is maddened by herself. Her brain filled with macabre thoughts, twisting her body in disgust, clenching her temples so that the images do not escape. They must combust. Fingers sinking into the flesh of her thigh, nails bite, the body fights. Her legs animated, writhing, trembling. Demonic fantasies throb in her head, visions slowely blurs to red. She is a razorblade with an inclination for mutilation, slashing through common sense, rubbing salt into the wound. She is disfigured, her body etched in the smallest abrasions, memories of the dread, a love for the dead. She is what makes up the thoughts in my head. She IS my fantasy

my turn, just for fun: (98 words)

she is....

she is water, she is mine,
soothing me with hips so fine
that undulate in bluesy rhythms
singing songs, creating schisms
lolling in the depths of hunger
she's the one who puts me under
dreaming life instead of death
creating worlds with words of breath
floating round me like the sea
her waves crash down to pummel free
the edges of physical duress
relaxing under her caress
awaken, smiling, i can feel
her teeth against my neck like steel
coldly calculating, she
cloaks me in the bloody sea
gouting spouting from the hole
she perforated, stole my soul.



SHE IS.... (115 words)

She is brazen, she is volitile. She is maddened by herself. Her brain filled with macabre thoughts, twisting her body in disgust, clenching her temples so that the images do not escape. They must combust. Fingers sinking into the flesh of her thigh, nails bite, the body fights. Her legs animated, writhing, trembling. Demonic fantasies throb in her head, visions slowely blurs to red. She is a razorblade with an inclination for mutilation, slashing through common sense, rubbing salt into the wound. She is disfigured, her body etched in the smallest abrasions, memories of the dread, a love for the dead. She is what makes up the thoughts in my head. She IS my fantasy

She is lost in a world she thought she knew. All of the twists and turns that reminded her of the lines in the palm of her hand, faded and ran like streams into the river. She no longer knew what fate had in store for her. The fact that she once was so sure was only a foolish mistake. She wanted to weep her sorrow over her losses, then realized she never had them to lose. She was one of the masses floating along the river of life. Each turn taking her in a direction she never would have predicted.

(101... only one word over.)

100 Words

"She is, was and forever shall be a figment of my imagination." – I befriended her in my isolation. Now she is no longer necessary.

"She is supernatural." - Logic decrees her non-existence. As if an apparition, I can shut my eyes and negate her from a world where rationality wins the day.

"She is insecurity, apathy and sadness." - I wore her as a role. Like so many others, I performed to the criterion befitting the relevant drama.

Still, in all of her insignificance the most significant thing about her is that despite my attempts to destroy her she is.

Darkangel16 - You did great, thanks for sharing, and feel free to come back and try again if you want to go for 100 words.

Rara Avis - Thank you, I'm fine. Busy, as always. I look forward to hearing more from you.

DeathKitten - Your entry was superb, you caught on right away. Feel free to submit more than one. I have.

Cassei - Very unique, and outside the box; I like that you decided to put it in poem form, although I prefer this thread to be used mainly for light prose/paragraph fiction. Still your entry was very good, and I hope you'll come back and try the exercise again sometime in paragraph form.

FallingStar - I like yours, also. It's like an instantaneous glimpse into a perfect stranger's life. Like you might be describing a random girl in a photograph that you found on the street, or near a trash can. Excellent work.

Phenozain - Yours is like... a one sided conversation with a therapist, about the ghost of a dead symptom of schizophrenia, or a part of your personality that has died. Very good.

~~~~~~~~~~

She is tired. Her back is sore, --and she is hundreds of years old now, with hundreds more to go. Her familiar, the black cat is cranky, and has to take arthritis medication from the vet in town. She is the last witch in a world of neopaganism, satanism, shamanism... all these "ism"s, she is left behind. She no longer uses a cauldron or lives in a tent; those days are long behind her.

The witch leans out of her window, and looks out over the rest of the apartment buildings and small bungalows. The timer for the crock pot dings, she goes to stir the mess inside. Outside, an ambulance blares its siren, and she looks up. Old Mrs. Rubins is carried out in a stretcher.

She serves up the stew to her and the cat. Spiders and parts of mice bubble to the surface as she sips from her spoon. She run a gnarled hand through her coiffed white hair, and cackles to herself, "See if that poodle shits near my rose garden again." She is the last witch. But time has not made her kind.

_________________
This is waaay over a hundred, which just goes to show that I'm terrible at following even my own rules.

Thank you. i just might come back an try again.

She is the one who sits over there…the one he throws his desperate words at. His loving words slip off her ears, her body moves away from his warm hands. She is the one who smells his tears at night and feels him think bout her. She hears him scream in his head, never smiles or cries. He sighs at her monosyllabic answers…her empty eyes, her deadly voice. He grabs her shoulder and kisses her form time to time…her mouth kills him. He’s yearned to feel the life go out of her as his fingers break her throat, hear her call his name as she spreads her thighs like delicate butterfly wings. She is the object of his red hate and black love…She is the only one that knows of his schizophrenia.

Over 100.
Sorry :P

Those were particularly tasty. Kudos.

good one Reno, I think we've all seen ppl in that situation.
here's mine.



She is a sultry glance over the shoulder
dressed like a whore, sitting amongst the stones
Her black nails slide along her black stockings
Calling, waiting.
The nylon is tearing -
rivulets of blood twist down her spiked boots like spiderwebs.
I want those same nails thrust through my heart,
pinning me to to grass --
the pain will awaken me & I'll feel the hunger.
I know her haughtiness is just a sham
but she knows what she is worth.
The smell of ash fills the air,
as she lights a cigarette.
I bite into her neck, killing her, taking her power;
making her name my own. making her lust my weapon.



113 words

Thanks :)