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50 words

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posted on Feb, 18 2006 @ 08:26 PM
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Yes, the old and dreaded 50 word stories. I had to do one of these for something or other, and even though it's not very good, I would like to post it.

The gentleman wondered what to order. Osetra Caviar, Greek Oyters; Caesar salad with Balsamic Vinegar and a plate of olives? Perhaps. And desert? Well, chocolate crusted Pomegranate banana cheesecake with apple cider sorbet looked to be a good choice.

He was looking for the waiter when the German airship caught fire.


These things are hard and challenging. An entire story into 50 words is no easy task.

Anyone else want to have a try?




posted on Feb, 20 2006 @ 06:45 PM
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I'll try...

Walking across the moist green organic. A trail of footsteps winding behind me; caused by the dew fighting the rays of the mid morn sun. Head still floating from the night before. Kaleidoscopic visions dancing through my view. I could smell the colors. Oh, how I love these olfactory hues.




Hehe... I love how music can inspire ya sometimes. I'm not sure if you can call what I wrote a story though. Seems more like... Poetry maybe? Not sure if I did it correctly.

[edit on 20-2-2006 by LostSailor]



posted on Feb, 21 2006 @ 02:24 AM
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Nah, it's great. To me a fifty word story is anything with fifty words, althrough I don't actually like a lot of poetry.

And here I was about to post about the so called 'writers' on here!



posted on Feb, 21 2006 @ 05:26 AM
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Well since you like poetry......hehe

Regret,
forming from the day before.
An endless list of choices but I want
More.. or less I feel same
even though my life has changed..

...in the distance..

Lead me back to the golden corn field,
placed in sun.
Placed before my regret had begun.
Growing without looking
back.



posted on Feb, 21 2006 @ 06:02 AM
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I just do not see the point of poetry. It's all double-talk to leave you guessing most of the time. I can understand that there are all types of poetry, and the subtleness of some types really captivates people, but not for me.


Regret,
forming from the day before.
An endless list of choices but I want
More.. or less I feel same
even though my life has changed..

...in the distance..

Lead me back to the golden corn field,
placed in sun.
Placed before my regret had begun.
Growing without looking
back.


So you're saying that you did something bad yesterday, something that has changed your life, and the regret from that is steadily growing?



posted on Feb, 21 2006 @ 06:14 AM
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Poetry is the art of words and the art of emotion. I love it. Check out my poetry thread www.abovetopsecret.com... and maybe I will change your mind about the valueof poetry.

I mean how boring would it be if everyone just always expressed themselves in a straight-forward and uncreative way instead of playing with words and making beautiful verses.

My poem is, as you said, about not being able to escape regret and desiring to move forward without the baggage of the past. To be taken back to the 'golden corn field' to regrow as a pure and natural entity, free from the burden of fear, pain, regret and consiquence.......and yet at the same time yearning for experience and change, which with it brings regrets..........



posted on Feb, 22 2006 @ 05:36 AM
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Originally posted by earthtone

Delve
or
reach,
Does your system
teach? Influence
idea
Individual
they always thought
like
almost clever
when we understand
it never
here we are more
than liars
abscond

--------------------------------------

And so it is taken and
it is given.
The baby screams for it's milk like
the sheets on his death bed,
made of silk.

A black canvas
and a black chalk
for those who cannot walk the walk

Blank cheque,
written out like a car wreck.
The liars speek with volume,
and reach so far,
they cannot tell you who you are.

Those who can are gone.
The ground cannot speek
not at six feet.

--------------------------------------

Look at the floor people of the world

Look at your feet
when you pass each other on the street.
Esoteric, hidden, and both,
plugging your lips on your parallell trips.
Through the undergrowth
under the city
The tubes and stuffy queues
too worn to show no pity
somehow

Communication in fear

consolidation in silence.
Silence in confidence, or violence.
Noisy books lie next to silent crooks.
The rat race crushing the rats who rattle
under the city
Through the drains and metal caves where
the trains have no pity
somehow

Information with injected desires

on the wall,
In the carriage
Making us ill, and moving and both.
Go away.

I want to go back.



These are my favourite, particularly the last, and I would like to know where you got your inspiration for it.

But poetry is still surely not my favourite form of written communication. I just don't have a sense for it, although I can plainly see that you have talent.

I'm sorry.



posted on Feb, 22 2006 @ 09:27 AM
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The elderly man stepped into the batting cage. He'd set the pitching machine on "Heat", but he barely looked strong enough to hold the bat. It was his birthday and his wife, daughter and grandchildren looked on. Windup, pitch. He heard a crowd gasp as the high fastball took him in the left temple. "Take your base" he heard clearly as he expired, smiling.



posted on Feb, 22 2006 @ 11:15 AM
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These are my favourite, particularly the last, and I would like to know where you got your inspiration for it.

But poetry is still surely not my favourite form of written communication. I just don't have a sense for it, although I can plainly see that you have talent.


My inspiration is our troubled society and my inner turmoil! Im glad you like it, to be honest I didn't spend alot of time on those but I do really like the last one that you liked also.

I poetry is like when you first start smoking, at first it's a bit rough , but you learn to love it soon enough after the first twenty or so!!



posted on Feb, 22 2006 @ 02:51 PM
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You think? Practise makes perfect, I suppose.

Vuoto, great story! . . . as he expired, smiling . . .



posted on Feb, 22 2006 @ 04:55 PM
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It was the National Championship game. Tom Ogee was in his senior year, playing in his final game. The score was tied with 30 seconds left. Catching a crisp pass from his defenseman, Tom shrugged off a body check and raced to the goal. Shot top shelf… Crowd goes wild.



posted on Feb, 22 2006 @ 08:54 PM
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.

He glanced up from his digging. The sun's orb just kissing the western horizon. Redoubling his efforts now, he switched back to the pickaxe and swung vigorously. Suddenly he heard the dull crunch of wood splitting beneath his feet. Scratching sounds told him the Vampire must now be digging, too.

.



posted on Feb, 22 2006 @ 09:01 PM
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Does this have to be EXACTLY 50 words or can it be less? Hitting an exact 50 would be a heck of allot tougher then 50 or less.

Wupy



posted on Feb, 23 2006 @ 12:41 AM
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mrwupy, it's okay to give or take 5 or so, I reckon anyway. Perhaps 4.

LostSailor, nice, but I don't know American Footy lingo.

dr_strangecraft, that ending was great! . . . the Vampire must be digging too . .



posted on Feb, 23 2006 @ 05:43 AM
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That's um... Ice hockey my man. Hmmmm... Guess I didn't make that clear did I?



posted on Feb, 23 2006 @ 02:40 PM
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It's ice hockey? Ahh, well, crap, what can I say? Another 50 word story?

The Canadian men were playing golf.
It was rather cold, even by their standards, so they both wore parkas.
"Good drive Jimmy."
"Ahh, thanks, but see that slice? Powerful, but kinda cut over there." He pointed.
"I noticed that. What happened?"
"Those idiots over the fence distracted me. Honestly, playing ice hockey in this blizzard!"


An oldie, but a goldie.



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