Daily Drabble

So, Allison and I were really bored at work today, so we decided to do something creative and come up with the best sentences we could write. Just random sentences. The ones in italics are mine, the others are Allison's. Enjoy!




I bent my will like the orchid bends its stem- always towards the sun,
the sun that was my father.

"She reads the way she eats," Michael said disdainfully; "It's all junk
anyway."

Privilege is a badge on your character. You earn it by performing to
the height of your talent in the towering chaos that is society.

He watched the scene unfold in front of him with growing horror, unable
to think past the abject revulsion, unable to act past the gape mouthed
staring, unable to reconcile the fact that the images he was seeing had
actually happened; he thought he might be sick.

If she had to smell the stale sausage miasma creeping quickly through
the office for one more second, she would surely vomit.

As quickly as the memory had come, it was gone, like a puff of twinkie
smoke up the ventahood in the chemistry classroom.


"It sprouts!" she said excitedly.

"I'm sorry, did you just use the word 'sprout' as a verb?" he regarded
her with empathetic caution, the way he would regard an old woman on
the street waiting for a bus three blocks away from the bus stop.


It is these thoughts that flash and return, flash and return, ever
present in the cobwebed corners of the forgotten rooms of our mind, yet
waiting, ever waiting, for the least opportune moment to flash and blind
us once again.

Have you ever seen a tiger stare at the box of animal crackers and
wonder what the hell has happened to society?

The bookshop smelled of age, of accumulated memory and thought, of
history boiled down and condensed to fill a page, of ink and dust and very
strongly of burnt coffee.

She wondered if it was strange that the symbol she equated with her
entire childhood was the squeak of her bedroom door. Her room was her
sanctuary, and no one entered it without her knowledge, thanks to that
squeak. It was the sound of that squeak that alerted her to his presence
on that fateful night three years ago.

What is there left to say when all the words have been spoken, the
letters rearranged, the syllables torn apart, until nothing remains of the
original meaning, and all that is left is the scattered, broken
detritus of a conversation gone horribly wrong?