Port of (Booty) Calljydog1March 23 2009, 17:46:17 UTC
The yacht was outfitted in a manner befitting the exorbitant price tag, more luxurious than a five-star hotel. It had every amenity he'd ever heard of and a few others, plus a crew that was skilled, polite, and discreet.
The latter was handy as he traveled the globe, hitting one hot spot after another and leaving a trail of ladies behind, some broken-hearted, some ruing the missed opportunity of easy street slipping away between the waves. It was a life most would envy and not a only a few would kill for.
It didn't help, as she still haunted his dreams.
(my original unedited draft came in at exactly 100 words. Now that's a first for me - and probably a last)
Re: Port of (Booty) Callviking_catMarch 29 2009, 18:27:02 UTC
This is really nice. It's an interesting portrait; it can be twisted in any one of several different directions to create an image of very distinct people. I like it.
He’d stand for hours in the Arizona heat, wondering at the noises from his father’s locked garage. He’d only asked once; his mother grew tightlipped before retreating to the kitchen to bang dishes, and his father told him that every man should have a dream and a secret. He hadn’t asked again. He’d been raised to respect secrets.
The day after the funeral he took his father’s key ring and unlocked the narrow door for the first time. Woodworking tools lined the walls. The yacht loomed before him, filling the space fully, hand-carved teak gleaming in the dusty desert light.
The deck glistened, its buffed wood reflecting the afternoon sun. Celia emerged from below, as if in slow motion. She always seemed to move in slow motion, black hair tossing over deep tan shoulders.
She lowered her sunglasses just enough. “They need you down there.”
“But it’s not even dark yet.” Dan looked up, lazy. The small of his back wasn’t going to just tan itself.
“Now,” Celia insisted. “You like this life, don’t you?”
“Hm.” Dan’s shoulders rippled as he rose and wrapped himself in a towel. “Be right there.”
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The latter was handy as he traveled the globe, hitting one hot spot after another and leaving a trail of ladies behind, some broken-hearted, some ruing the missed opportunity of easy street slipping away between the waves. It was a life most would envy and not a only a few would kill for.
It didn't help, as she still haunted his dreams.
(my original unedited draft came in at exactly 100 words. Now that's a first for me - and probably a last)
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He’d stand for hours in the Arizona heat, wondering at the noises from his father’s locked garage. He’d only asked once; his mother grew tightlipped before retreating to the kitchen to bang dishes, and his father told him that every man should have a dream and a secret. He hadn’t asked again. He’d been raised to respect secrets.
The day after the funeral he took his father’s key ring and unlocked the narrow door for the first time. Woodworking tools lined the walls. The yacht loomed before him, filling the space fully, hand-carved teak gleaming in the dusty desert light.
Reply
She lowered her sunglasses just enough. “They need you down there.”
“But it’s not even dark yet.” Dan looked up, lazy. The small of his back wasn’t going to just tan itself.
“Now,” Celia insisted. “You like this life, don’t you?”
“Hm.” Dan’s shoulders rippled as he rose and wrapped himself in a towel. “Be right there.”
“And?”
“And . . . ia ia. Cthulhu fhtagn.”
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