The "100 Words Exactly" Journal Project (I'm boycotting the term "meme")
Write a story or a snippet of one using no more than 100 words.
It can be based on anything - a recollection, pure fiction, some dialogue, a dream, whatever, as long as it is no more than 100 words.
Try to make it as off-the-cuff as you can, just run with the first thing that comes to mind.
It must have complete sentences and clauses. No running out of words in mid-sentence or not finishing a thought within the 100 word limit.
Hyphenated words (side-mounted, yellow-green) count as one, but not hyphenated phrases (late-to-the-party, too-good-to-be-forgotten, etc.)
Continue if someone says "Encore" in the comments!
Post the story and this memeproject on your journal only if you want to.
[FIRST 100]
"God damn it, I'm turning into fucking Martha", Brad stormed as he sought in vain for a matching sock in the laundry basket.
"Martha Stewart? Not with the state of this apartment," Brian sneered, before taking a sip from his latte. "A small hint -- those throw-pillows don't match the sheet you have covering the couch."
"No, you idiot, Martha from the Bible." Brad sighed. "The one who did all the work while Mary just sat around chatting up Jesus when He came to visit? I'm drowning in trivialities. The poetry in my soul's just...gone. It's the death of dreams."
It can be based on anything - a recollection, pure fiction, some dialogue, a dream, whatever, as long as it is no more than 100 words.
Try to make it as off-the-cuff as you can, just run with the first thing that comes to mind.
It must have complete sentences and clauses. No running out of words in mid-sentence or not finishing a thought within the 100 word limit.
Hyphenated words (side-mounted, yellow-green) count as one, but not hyphenated phrases (late-to-the-party, too-good-to-be-forgotten, etc.)
Continue if someone says "Encore" in the comments!
Post the story and this memeproject on your journal only if you want to.
[FIRST 100]
"God damn it, I'm turning into fucking Martha", Brad stormed as he sought in vain for a matching sock in the laundry basket.
"Martha Stewart? Not with the state of this apartment," Brian sneered, before taking a sip from his latte. "A small hint -- those throw-pillows don't match the sheet you have covering the couch."
"No, you idiot, Martha from the Bible." Brad sighed. "The one who did all the work while Mary just sat around chatting up Jesus when He came to visit? I'm drowning in trivialities. The poetry in my soul's just...gone. It's the death of dreams."