101 Words

[Kidd_Wadsworth]

Hey Writing Buds, Post up to 101 in this thread. Thrill me with your writing!

I'll go first:

The dragon lay on a bed of cooling lava, the black cracked surface revealing, in thin meandering channels and small pools, the fiery red molten rock beneath. The heinous creature was stretched out on its belly, its four legs extended outward to each side. The dragon’s long snout also lay flat against the harsh, jagged, rock, its mouth open, its black tongue extended and uncurled. If not for the horned spikes running down its back, its huge wings, its lethal razor sharp tail and reeking breath, it might have been a pup flopped on a rug in front of a fire.

--Kidd

 

[ThrillingHuman]

Eh

 

[Dieter]

WIP Story. It exceeds 101 by a few dozen.

Nothing was as before.

Once, there had been an expanse of viridescent plain—flat low heathlands and moors, that stretched on until steep cliffs gave rise to mountains—snow peaked and blue glazed, that soared deep into the sky piercing clouds.

Wilderness had reigned below in its shadow. Fruitful trees had grown in sparse groves; young and sprightly weeds, wildly green and gold, rising to brush one’s knees; and in the clear streams that meandered quietly past, never tumultuous even when dark clouds made landfall for days on end, life had flitted innocently by over its shallow bed.

Wild lands, unruly to change its ways, to be told what it should grow, had always been desolate of hardy folks—exodus by those whose calling was to tilt. Only travelers came and went, never staying for long.

But now? No one.

A blanket of fog now loomed above it; the ground underneath, inhospitable and soul dreary—had taken life from life that met its touch. Barely anything lived within; and those that did, were dying.

 

[Ssthat]

i dont really feel like writing 101 words
cope

 

[georgelee5786]

"WHOOOOOO," the gnome yelled. He was then promptly shoved off a cliff by his elven comrade because he hated all the noise the gnome made.

 

[Kidd_Wadsworth]

Eh

It is so easy to be a critic. Where are your 101 words?

 

[Zirrboy]

It is so easy to be a critic. Where are your 101 words?

You posed no lower limit, so you're looking at them.

 

[FaustVoncleave]

“Live son, live.” He remembered his father’s last words, despite the sound of his voice already becoming a distant memory. He prayed before the grave dedicated to his parents, even though only his father’s body lied within. So many memories lost to time, yet the sight of his mother’s mangled body under the collapsed carriage was a memory that refused to fade. He prayed because that’s what the priest expected of him, but he never believed. Not for a moment. God didn’t save his family. He would be the church’s good boy, grow and learn, then, once strong enough, he would enact the justice god denied the world.

Seven words over. Couldn't find anywhere else to cut without losing something.

 

[RepresentingCaution]

The kid woke up from its nap before I could breathe.

 

[Thekherham]

Why 101?

Oh well...

Cal Torrence sat at the bar, a bottle of beer in his large hands, his head down as if he were thinking of something serious. A moment later he looked straight ahead, at the numerous glasses on display in front of a large mirror. Could it have been him? The key was Benita Corovelli, Creighton’s girl, who had a tendency to wander.

Maybe Fenwick, the special effects man. Former special effects man. Anyone was capable of anything if they put their minds to it.

He finished his lunch, left a twenty on the table. It didn’t cost that much, but he’d leave Alice and her Tereskàdian helpers a generous tip.

...
All right, I just picked that out of the blue. Now I'm going back to my new work.​

 

[Kidd_Wadsworth]

Why 101?

Oh well...

Cal Torrence sat at the bar, a bottle of beer in his large hands, his head down as if he were thinking of something serious. A moment later he looked straight ahead, at the numerous glasses on display in front of a large mirror. Could it have been him? The key was Benita Corovelli, Creighton’s girl, who had a tendency to wander.

Maybe Fenwick, the special effects man. Former special effects man. Anyone was capable of anything if they put their minds to it.

He finished his lunch, left a twenty on the table. It didn’t cost that much, but he’d leave Alice and her Tereskàdian helpers a generous tip.

...
All right, I just picked that out of the blue. Now I'm going back to my new work.​

I like the writing, I really do. But I can't exactly understand what is going on. I know I said 101 words, but please add a bit more to it. Clue me in. Consider me a young reader someone who needs to be led right up to the water fountain before I know to drink. Give me more, dude.