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A hint of danger, a swirl of smoke and mystery. Are you up to the challenge of writing noir in 100 words?
Let me start with a story —
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She was at the bar, dress the color of arterial blood, mahogany hair so rich a man would do anything to see it fanned out across a pillow.
I’m one of those men.
Like the dead man I had just left.
She picked up the tumbler swallowing the amber liquid without a flinch.
Scotch. Neat. I think I’m in love.
“Dead?”
“Ma’am, you don’t seem to be too broken up.”
She snapped open a small clutch, pulling out a monogrammed hankie to dab at her eyes now starting to water.
“Better?”
Seems the Gates of Hell are perfumed with Shalimar.
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Now, your turn.
It was awful as coffee goes, but hot wetness in his mouth sufficed for the moment, and the mechanics of drinking excused from making eye contact as unthinkable thoughts tried to form into words.
“It must be bad,” she offered across the table, sensing the struggle, “you hate coffee.”
The sipping was done but still he looked down.
“I have to break a promise,” came the words-somehow harsh and foreign though in his own voice.
“Not the first time,” came the hurt but sympathetic reply.
“No” he allowed, finally looked up, meeting her eyes with frightening resolve, “But the last.”
Dave says: Well, damnit-all-to-hell. Here I am holding up this wall at 2am all because I read her book. She told me not to, and practically dared me to.
“Finished!” she said as she tossed the book on the table. “Two years’ work collected into six inches of triple-spaced, single-sided, one-inch-margined pages. Pages! Who does pages these days?”
“Now can I read it, Sam?” I asked.
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” Sam replied, her smile extra wide.
So, I read it, all of it: “Quantum Mechanics And The Female Orgasm.” Dear lord, the implications if true! I’m so going to hell.
Bob Rich says: I didn’t think I needed a drink until I saw the sign that said Bar.
She was a short one. So I ordered a tall one, and proceeded to tell her some lies.
So practiced we were at this dance, as the boredom wore on we missed our cues and slurred our lines until mercifully as the chairs were being tactfully stacked, with what dignity we could summon we went our ways without so much as a “Let’s do it again.”
But we would. Of course we would. There’s always a sign that says Bar not so very far away.
Steven Fletcher says: It was a nice watch, given to him by his grandfather. He stood in the alley looking at the watch and waiting for the big man to exit the door of the bar. Standing, waiting – “killing time” is what he called it.
“Killing time”. The phrase seemed appropriate considering how he made his living. ” Killing time” was fast approaching. “Killing time” should happen around 8:00 o’clock. He shrugged his shoulders and pulled his hat low across his face.
Yes, it was a mighty fine watch. He stood in the darkness waiting for the door to open. Standing, waiting, killing time.
Andrew says: She wore red lacquered lips above and black flats below, but her left hand wore a gun. They were all pointed at me.
“It’s a nice night to die. Don’t you agree, Mr. Bond?”
Her black eyes maintained their vigil. Men would kill for eyes like that.
I opened my palm. The black onyx ring shone like the glare of the sun on an oily windshield. “The Professor is interested in this ring’s brother,” I said. “Perhaps you should take me to him.”
“There are many places I can take you, Mr. Bond.”
guinspen says: **** “I am the Big Shot.
You heard me right the first time, name of bachelor Johnny Cool.
Occupation: big shot. Occupation at the moment: just having fun.
What a party that was, the drinks were loaded and so were the dolls.
I narrowed my eyes and poured a stiff Manhattan, then I saw… Hotsy!
What a dame, a big bountiful babe, in the region of 48-23-38. One hell of a region.
She had the hottest lips since Hiroshima, I had to stand back for fear of being burned.
‘Whisky-wow-wow,’ I breathed; she was dressed as Biffo the Bear…” ****
It was profoundly painful, not physically, but emotionally and spiritually, to feel the effect of what mattered more than anything, that had ever mattered to any created soul, eternal loss. How does one bare a burden that cannot be shared or even explained with any significance to another, or find solace in a world that is not concerned with anything eternal? A burden too heavy at times to carry, a burden that is relentless in its penetrating agony, a burden that can only be relieved by God alone. Is it at all possible with mercy, that this too will pass?
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