"Every writer has 10,000 pages of bad writing to get out of their system." Orson Scott Card. It's time to get some of it out of your system! Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to write the most hackneyed, cliched scene you can think of. Leave no stereotype untyped. (Nothing racist, I mean things like the square-jawed hero with the gleeming white teeth, or the mustache-twirling villain, etc.) This should cause the involuntary gnashing of teeth, rolling of eyes, and a multitude of painful groans. Please post your entries in this thread. Length, subject, etc. is completely up to you. Please use normal grammar and spelling. The point is to have a perfectly legible, perfectly awful story. Entries are due by the end of 23 April, (2003) then it's a week for voting. Enjoy!

I'm looking forward to this one. I can do. I know I can do. Are we allowed to use other peoples cliched characters? (like eg the way every Robin Cook book contains a small medically trained woman with long brown hair clipped back in a barrette) Shanna :-) sighing piteously as she prepares to ham it up for the challenge.

I meant I can do it, I was getting all excited again, sorry. Shanna :-) (has her fingers crossed waiting for Dialyn to post a link to cliche heaven)

Well, you can't use Dudley Do-Right since he's someone else's character, but nothing says that you can't use Dudley Do-Okay, or a Dudley Do-Acceptable. ;-)

Sorry, Shanna, I couldn't find anything that would help you. Unless you'd like to borrow my memory of a duck I had named Deadly Dudley Do-Right. (The drake had a bit of an attitude problem.)

"It was a dark and stormy night. . ." :)

The sad irony is that my very best stuff would probably win. :-P I once wrote a god awful take off of the Lord of the Rings. You know, a bunch of reluctant heroes of different races thrown together on an impossible quest to save to world. Fortunately it is lost in time's abyss. Or in the back of the filing cabinet. :-) Anyway, I'll give it a go. jon

Smart Money The sunlight was streaming through the windowpane with a white translucent glow from the glass block below. A tall blonde high school girl walked up to her chemistry table and opened the drawer with her key. She laughed and flashed comments to the boy beside her. Then she realized she had no idea what to do. What are we doing today? she asked the girl on her right. The other girl was deep in concentration in her workbook. She frowned. Well! Isnt anybody going to help me? the blonde girls cry was plaintive and emotion filled. The girl on the right kept her nose in the workbook and stuck her left arm up to the reagent bottles above. Were making silver chloride. She offered. The blonde turned her palms up and gesticulated. Then she looked over and began to copy what the other girl was doing. It seemed to be a charm. After completing the first mixture she realized she had opened two acid bottles and set one stopper in the finished silver chloride on the filter paper. Quickly she put the wrong stopper into the wrong bottle. Then she winced uncertain of which was which. The stoppers looked the same. One clear glass bottle said Nitric Acid, Reagent the other nearly identical said Hydrochloric Acid, Reagent. After the hour was up the blonde tucked her work book in her arms and smiled at the girl beside her. She walked out into the corridor and to her locker. Soon other classmates came near and struck up a conversation. It was great to be popular, she thought. It was three weeks later when with her hair a bit greasy and tangled, and with sleepy eyes the blonde looked up and saw some white flakes like dandruff floating in the nitric acid bottle. Angrily she grabbed the bottle and without placing her thumb over the stopper she began to shake it violently up and down. The stopper popped out and a clear liquid like water spilled on her forearm and wrist. Ignoring that she set the bottle back on the top shelf. Then a tingling set in. it really hurt. She ran screaming past the girl beside her and past the sink at the end of the table and beyond the classroom chairs to the front of the room and out the door into the hallway. She was headed for the janitors room screaming at the top of her lungs when the chemistry teacher caught her and with great difficulty dragged her back into the room and to the sink in the middle of his demonstration table. It was too late. The damage was done. The skin hung in loose folds. Pulling her along with him the teacher was now moving them toward the office to call for medical assistance. The knock on the door inside the atrium of rose bushes was insistent. The occupant of the gray house opened the door. Are you Mr. --------? With an affirmative answer the caller pressed a folded paper in the other mans hand. Realization struck the occupant. The blonde girl was the eldest daughter of a prominent local attorney and neighbor.

You could have a good giggle at www.moviecliches.com for some wonderful plot ideas or try www.westegg.com/cliche for a searchable database of over 3,000 cliches. Shanna :-)

Shanna, you're set to create a bad writing masterpiece! I'm thinking tallpindo's story may be too good for a bad writing contest.

Max Mann, Private Eye J. M. Strother I was just about to bite into my foot long hot dog when I heard the door to the outer office jingle. Anyone here? She had a deep throaty voice, the kind of voice that promised good things to come. In here! I barked. I watched the figure approach the mottle glass door, form and color becoming more distinct as she drew near. The form was just fine from what I could see, and she was dressed in red. The knob slowly turned and the door creaked open. I was dumbfounded. The hints from the textured glass could not have prepared me for what I saw. This dame was a 10 point Oh on the Richter scale and had the kind of moves that left towns like Frisco and Anchorage piles of rubble. I gawked as she entered the room. I wasn't sure if anyone was here. She apologized in a voice that could melt ice cream. Ah, Stephanie's out to lunch, I explained. Stephanie was my secretary. She'd been out to lunch for three months now, ever since I stiffed her on her pay check. The way Stephanie saw it, until I coughed up her back wages, she could take her good sweet time down at Al's Diner. Oh, I'm sorry. she apologized again. I see it's your lunch time too. She gave a shot to my hot dog, and then beyond. I glanced down to see a dollop of mustard had rolled off the bun to land squarely on my tie. Oh crap! I grumbled and put the dog back into it's paper tray. I wiped up the mustard with a paper napkin, smearing it halfway down the length of the tie and cursed again. I loosened the damned thing, pulled it off over my head and dropped it unceremoniously into a desk drawer with half a dozen of it's mates, similarly soiled. I can come back later if it's a bad time, she offered. Oh, no. Please, have a seat! I rose and indicated the chair to the side of my desk. It was on old wooden stiff-backed armless side chair, ala 1930's government surplus, that wobbled annoyingly because it was missing one of it's gliders. It wasn't too bad as long as the match book wedged under that leg stayed put. At my offer, she stepped in, closing the door behind her, and crossed the room in one long slow smooth motion that left me breathless. How can I help you? I managed to ask. Mr. Mann? Max. I offered. Mr. Mann. I just don't know what to do. I need help desperately and the police just won't do anything! She sank into the chair like a swan gliding into a pond. Thankfully neither the chair nor the match book moved. OK, I said, leaning back into my chair. It was an old oak swivel pedestal chair, ala 1950's government surplus, which creaked annoyingly when I rocked back and forth, which I tend to do now and then when I'm thinking. Why don't you tell me what you need help with? It's my husband, Mr. Mann. Her eyes began to get moist. Oh jeez, I thought, don't start bawling on me already. I figured she must suspect her husband of fooling around on her, and wanted me to get the goods on him. Happens all the time. Your husband? I encouraged. Oh, Mr. Mann, I'm so worried. He's missing. I'm just sick to death with worry. I rocked back in my chair and took out a pencil. It was an old #2, kind of dull since I hadn't sharpened it in a while, with the metal eraser bracket all chewed up. I sort of chew off erasers when I'm thinking. The metal sends a jolt through my fillings that sort of charges me up. I find it, ah... stimulating. I see, I said. I knew something did not quite add up here, since the police generally make it their business to do something about missing persons. So I asked the obvious. How long has he been missing? Since last night. I put down the pencil. The police say they won't even file a missing person's report until he's been missing at least 24 hours! The eyes were getting moister. I rocked forward. Ah, yes ma'am, I said. A lot of times guys just don't come home for a night... You know... car trouble. Tanked. Other women. She reached across the desk and slapped my face. Hard. I was so flabbergasted that I forgot to get mad. My husband would never cheat on me! How dare you suggest such a thing! Like an idiot, I apologized. Well there is car trouble... Getting tanked... She shook her head vehemently, sending blond curls dancing like so many ballerinas. My husband does not drink, and his store is only a mile from home. If he had car trouble he could have walked home. She locked her desperate eyes on mime. My husband is a missing man, Mr. Mann, she beseeched me. I'm afraid something terrible has happened to him. Well, ma'am, I guess you know him better than me, I conceded. Have you checked all the usual locations? Her stare was as vacant as the old brick factory over on 41st Street. I could tell I wasn't dealing with the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree here. You know; the morgue, hospitals... She choked back a sob and looked away. I see. I picked up the pencil and chomped down on the ragged metal end. A jolt fired down my spine. Well, you know, in about six hours the police will be happy to take that missing person's report from you, and check those... look into things. She wrung her hands. Oh please, Mr. Mann. Six hours... What if he's still alive, locked in a steamer trunk buried in a corn field and running out of air! How can I wait six hours! You have to help me, Mr. Mann. You are my only hope. Please tell me you will help me find my dearest Jeremy. She batted her big blues at me and I found myself nodding. OK, ma'am. I'll look into it for you. But I ain't cheap. I need a $500 retainer and charge $50 an hour. Plus expenses. She had the check written before I finished the sentence. I looked at it and arched an eyebrow at what I saw. What I found interesting was the address printed on the check, #17 Park Avenue. From the address alone I knew this dame was rich. With any luck her old man would prove harder to find than I expected. I could use a cash cow like her just now. Maybe I could even get Stephanie back. Well thank you, Mrs... I checked out the check again... Jones. I'll get right on the case. Oh no, thank you, Mr. Mann, she said raising from the chair like a morning dove on the breeze. I'm counting on you. Please find my dearest Henry quickly. Henry? Whatever, she said, gliding towards the door in that same smooth move that had brought her in. As she closed the door on her way out I'm sure they had another earth quake somewhere in Japan.

lol jstro, I'm sure I've seen the film AND read the book. It just all seems so familiar somehow. Shanna :-)

Jon....Snoopy would be proud! Is there hope for another chapter?

Actually, I had quite a bit more planned out in my head, but I think it got quite long enough. In fact, I thought it might be a tad long for the challenge even without a word limit. I got out of bed last night and wrote it out on loose leaf paper, something I have not done in years, because I needed to just get it down if I wanted any sleep at all. I don't think there will be any more chapters. jon

Heck, I wanted to know what happened to the husband, whatever his name is. You set up a good "hook" and now you've left me hangin'. Bummer. Guess I'm saying I enjoyed it. :)

Here is just the tip of the iceberg as far as all the truly awful writing I have to get out of my system is concerned. It was scarily easy to write. I don't hold out much hope of you enjoying it, but please, try to muffle your groans. I did it for arts sake. What's your excuse? lol Shanna ;-) We enter our scene. An old lady, dressed immaculately in a pale pastel coloured suit, her short grey hair preserved in precise waves, is sat at an elegant mahogany ladys writing desk. Her parchment pale hands move steadily over the heavy weight paper as she moves the gold nibbed fountain pen. Each curling letter issuing in perfect alignment with the preceeding one. We look over her straight backed form to see the letter she is writing.... Dear Son, Thank you for your letter informing me that the wedding your father remortgaged the house for is off. If you have no better suggestions for the disposal of the wedding cake I slaved over a hot stove to make I will give it to the local church fete as a prize for the tombola. I decided to write you this letter to cheer you up and to let you know my thoughts on the matter. You know what they say, mother knows best. I'm sorry to hear that your girlfriend has left you with nothing more than an overdraft, a pile of unpaid bills and a reputation for being less well endowed than other men. I'm sure this whole sorry situation seems like a bad dream to you. Wake up and smell the coffee son, it's life kicking you in the teeth. As far as your bills are concerned if you're looking for a loan, it'll be a cold day in hell before I get your father to put his hand in his back pocket after this latest stunt of yours. You've made the whole family a laughing stock. You're father is not best pleased. I'm sorry if you don't like it, but you are going to have to stand on your own two feet and face this like a man. I hear she also mentioned you have some timing problems. Don't even bother denying it. Perhaps you should consult a doctor? Try not to worry about it, nobody's perfect. We all have our cross to bear. Let's leave it at that. Anyway, I'm sure the gossip will die down in a few months, and this whole mess will blow over. Let's face facts. Shit happens, but will it all matter in a hundred years? You've got to pick yourself up off the floor and get on with life. I don't see why it should come as such a shock to you to discover she has left you for your best friend. Everyone else knew all about it months ago. I know he was going to be your best man, and as you ought to know, part of a best mans job is to stand in for the groom, in case of emergencies. Perhaps they were just practising and got carried away? According to Mrs Smith at the post office, he's going around telling people "he came, he saw and he conquered." I have to say, he's making you sound like a complete loser. But if the cap fits, wear it. Now son, you've got to buck up your ideas a little, love hurts. You've got to remember to always look on the bright side of life, it's better to find these things out now than later. At least now you know who your friends are. I understand they have all sided with her, but now you know where you stand. You'll make new friends. Maybe. Anyway, there's plenty more fish in the sea. She wasn't worth it anyway. If all else fails, I hear you can buy yourself a wife on the internet nowadays. How times have changed. When I was young, things were so much better. You young people today, you just don't know when you're well off. Don't forget, what goes around comes around, it's all swings and roundabouts, but if it's any consolation, at the end of the day, she'll get what's coming to her. Time will tell. Until then, I'm afraid you'll have to wait and see. I feel for you, I really do, about the way she ruined a perfectly good carpet by sowing watercress on it. Did you do something to offend her perhaps? I feel obliged to tell you, I always thought she was no good. I mean to say, what else would you expect of a stripper? Bad blood will tell and if you lie down with dogs, well son, you just have to face it, sooner or later you're going to get up with fleas. Leaving your phone connected to the speaking clock in Australia was quite childish as well. I myself value originality in revenge. You've only got yourself to blame you know, at the end of the day life is what you make it. Make sure you learn from your mistakes this time. Just take it one step at a time and you'll see, the right one will come along in time. Just have patience. You need to learn to love yourself. We are all alone. Well, obviously your ex fiancee isn't, or your best friend, or myself and your father. Now that I stop to think about it, do you actually know any singletons nowadays? Anyway, you are all alone. Now is the time to stop and take stock of your life. Turn over a new leaf and learn from your mistakes. Perhaps you could take up a new hobby? Make yourself a bit more interesting? After all, if you can't enjoy your own company, how could anyone else? Well, look how time flies when you're having fun? I'm so glad we've had this little heart to heart. It has certainly cleared the air. I'm sorry if you think I have been a little harsh, but sometimes you just have to be cruel to be kind. I must go, I have so much to do. I've got to see a man about a dog. I hope this letter has cheered you up. You know I only want whats best for you. I'm very proud of you really, and I know you won't let us down, doing something embarrassing; for instance crying like a baby in the street again, as you did last weekend. In the cirucmstances I would appreciate it if you could return the engagement ring as soon as possible. It is, after all a family heirloom and I suspect one of your brothers is likely to need it first. Next time, look before you leap. Do write soon and just remember, we're always here for you. Our thoughts are with you. Keep your chin up son. All my love, Your Mother. (Mrs A. Cliche) ps your father sends his regards. All comments welcome cos that that does not kill me makes me stronger...doesn't it? Shanna :-) okay, I can stop cliche-ing now. Well, I can try.....

LOL...I love your sense of humor, shanna. Very good, indeed. I'm not participating because I am on jury duty for five wieeks (!), computerless most of the day, and trying to fit work in between pauses. I'm just too tired to think about writing. But I am enjoying reading. :)

Doc she said, nodding her head and tossing her well where was that long flowing dark shimmer that would tangle and flow? I have to have this surgery. Kindly the doctor looked up at who was before him. He loved this role. Leading man to Natalie Ruffo the villain of a hundred pictures was something he had watched in dozens of ads and premieres. At first he reached for one of the brochures he handed out to all his patients. Then a faint voice in his head told him to call her publicist. He looked up almost in shame. Just one moment then he walked out into the hall and reached into his breast pocket for something that wasnt there. The activist was missing. He reached back and felt for his wallet. What was he going to tell her when he went back into the office? Instead he walked into a closet off to one side. He reached up and clicked on a monitor. Looking into the monitor he could see the whole of his recently vacated office through a fisheye lens. Natalie had gotten up as soon as he left. She was moving around the room looking at the pictures of his family with their dogs and swimming pool. Then she was rummaging through his top desk drawer and looking for the black book he kept his telephone numbers in. She began to dart around furtively gazing into space and at the floor. Why hadnt he taken his little black book? How was he going to call her publicist? He almost stepped out of the closet to meet her breathlessly in the corridor racing back to his office. She put the book back and spotted it. Behind a book on his bookshelf entitled Relationships was a picture of a woman in faded black dance attire. She took the picture and turned it around to read the note. To my beloved Dr.Gsthetic. Love always, Benjameeri!!! The woman looked terrible. Her eyes were droopy. Her jaw line sagged. There were furrows in her forehead. But you had to admit she had a fantastic body. Natalie smiled. Then she began to hum a passage from the Indian national anthem. Dr.Gsthetic felt he had the hook set. He clicked off the switch on the monitor. He reached up and pressed a red button. A muted siren could be heard far off in the clinic. Natalie quickly replaced the picture and the book and sat back down in the chair facing the doctors desk. The door burst open and three figures in white nylon burst into the office. Natalie Ruffo scrunched down in her chair so the back blocked her from view. They began to talk excitedly, confused. Where is Dr. Gsthetic? One asked. There was no answer. Natalie suddenly sat up and looked back twirling the chair around. They could see her clearly. The hacked hair and dour expression of clinical depression was clear. He was just here. She offered, Hes making a call for me. Its going to change my life!! Her voice was rising, shrill. Damn it! one of those dressed in white said. As quickly as they had entered they left. Shit! the expression from Natalie was not a curse but a way of life. They did not even notice me. Now Im talking to myself. Dr. Gsthetic slipped noiselessly back into his office. Yeek! Natalie had not heard him as she was talking to herself. Then she quickly came to her senses and reached into her purse and pulled out a small pack of folded money. Pressing it into his hand across the wide desk she looked dreamily into his eyes, which highlighted the surprised expression on his face. I..I he stammered. What is this for? Oily skin she explained. I have oily skin and dry hair. Oh! he began to laugh. Of course the treatment. Well he said, Its a good thing Im not a G.P. or a O.B. GYN. He imagined something frightful in the stirrups. No, she continued, Im an actress. An actress with oily skin and dry hair. Now he understood the overwhelming sense of public exposure, which had seized his most intimate spaces. Frowning again he stood up. She opened her coat, which she had been clutching tightly to herself since the interview began. He was going to look away at the shelf of before and after pictures on glass shelves but was compelled to look at her. The black dancers tights were very low cut at the top and ran tight over the lower body. With her coat now opened and thrown on the chair arms beside it was like looking at his zipper opened. She began to squirm a bit in the chair and then did a sort of sideways rotating flip with her upper body and head. He decided not to put a spin on what he was about to say. The scrubs and alcohol rubs were what he remembered from dermatology. What could a plastic surgeon do about oily skin and dry hair? Then he realized. Of course she was an actress. His impulse to call in a consultant and split the fee was dropped. He could see her warm as she thought of the other woman behind the book. They both entered a common sense of frugality based on his observation of her behavior on the monitor. I hope I did not upset you with my candor. They both spoke at once. Then they laughed heartily at the private joke. The interview was going nicely and the room was pleasant. The idea of an oil transplant was beginning to gel. After all some women have light fuzz on their face. It was simply a matter of stronger roots for the facial hair and transplanting it to her skull and transplanting some of the dry nodes to her face. Sort of like British comedy and American comedy swapping laugh lines. He caught himself and picked up the phone to call an assistant. Rogerson! Come in here and take a sample of DNA from Ms. Ruffos inner cheek could you? Rogerson arrived promptly and took out a disposable surgical kit. Leaning over Natalie he asked her to open her mouth and she opened her top even farther settling into the chair in a very relaxed mode. The sample was quickly taken. Ill post these results to your computer Dr. The technician was not foiled by the obvious charms of the patient. He walked out closing the door behind him. Weve a few more minutes. Dr. Gsthetic was cordial. Natalie sucked at her cheek like she had a fruit gumball in her mouth. Then she yawned and coughed. The doctor offered her a wipe from a pack on his desk. He remembered the money he had in his hand. Holding it up to her he opened a side desk drawer and opened a cashbox. Ill just put this in here against the final result He carefully unfolded the bills and placed them on the top of whatever was in the cash box. DNA is a marvelous thing, he said cheerfully. It wont be long and well have some precursor catalysts to begin trials of changing the oil in your face and hair. Oh! I know you are concerned. There wont be any surgery of the general anesthetic kind. Well use a small topical for the removal of one or two oily and one or two dry follicles and glands to make our growth tests and then see how the mutate. She was grateful for that and said so. Reaching into a small wooden box on his desk he withdrew a business card and gave it to her. Then he pressed a few keys on his computer to wirelessly transfer the record to the card he asked her when she would like the surgery done. I hoped now, she offered. He was still standing and walked over to a cabinet and got out an implant mining device and walked over to her. Pressing several buttons on the device he set up the immunizing shock to the nerves and proceeded, drawing up a small bounce up stool on wheels that retracted as he sat on it. The implant mining device now held the mined oil glands and the waste hair follicles. I just remembered I have a gross hair on one of my nipples she offered cautiously. Could you remove it also now? She waited. All right he said. Can you show me which one? Ummm, I think its the right one she began to peel back her blouse and undo the strap to lower the cup. Looking at the nipple now she was a bit embarrassed. Im used to seeing it in the mirror and I guess its the left one. Now she had the whole top of her dance tights pulled down to her waist and was standing up pulling off her brassiere. Oh! Why do I wear these silly French things, she asked unconsciously. He waited as she approached him on the stool and sat back in her large armchair again. Ah! Here it is. She thrust her breast at the doctor pointing at a spot in great detail. He looked at it studiously. Bzzzt! The mining tool drew the hair follicle out and cauterized the small opening. Take a look. He offered a hand mirror held up to the tip of her breast so she could see the result. Then he turned it so the profile of her torpedo-like breast could be seen in profile. He studied it carefully. She was about to throw the brassiere she had taken off into the trash basket when she stopped herself and continued looking at the image. Im not the fashion police the doctor was being kind. She had never been overly endowed and now felt almost like a widow in the heat of his study. Veggan studies and yoga had not had any effect on the smallness. As her body had shrunk it seemed that the proportion of womanliness was strengthened and yet now she had to admit that maybe oily skin was not why she had come. Take a moment to get dressed. His voice was kind. She pulled the top of her tights back up and placed the brassiere in her purse. He began to drum his fingers on the desktop. Then he stopped. Oh, well she thought with a rush. Doctor? her voice cracked. Yes, he tried to make her at ease. My big toe, she offered. The hairs on it may be too large. He was staring off into space leaning back in his chair. All right then. I do want to be a doctor. Now he began to look self-satisfied. It would be only a moment until she told him why she was there. A doctor he coached. Yes, I want to have all the things that make a doctor a doctor. You should have gone to one of my female colleagues. He was contemptuous of what was being insinuated. That doctor is not what I meant. Her tone was hurt. Get to the point. I can see you are a forceful woman of considerable talent. What do you want? Then he relented. Standing to his full six-foot height he reached up higher and took off the top shelf above a door what looked like a magazine. He showed it to her and she blushed. Those are gays. She smirked a bit recalling how it was about the time she noticed the oily skin she had been puzzled by what else was new. A man is a man he played it back as his wife had set it down before the divorce. Well yes sort of when revenge is to be extracted. She sneered. Get out of my office!! His voice was threatening. No! She said not until I get what I am after. He glanced at the crossed letter openers on the corner of his desk. She saw them a quavered a bit realizing that this was it. No Hollywood just Natalie and Dr. Gsthetic. She hoped peer pressure would freeze him as she leaped to the side and grabbed for a letter opener. His hand slammed down on the desk just before she had it in her hand and swept it onto the floor. Pick that up! She tried an anonymous stand. He just stood out of arms reach. Then she stomped out of the office. Im through now!! she tossed recklessly over her shoulder. Five attendants were at the door in response to the doctors buzz. Let her pass the doctors demeanor was cold. She was shaking and in a cold sweat as she walked down the corridor. Jesus she thought to herself. What a jerk! Now The doctors command was ruthless and his stare caught her by surprise. Bring her in here. Were ready to clone those oil ducts now. He began to get out a mask. One of the attendants placed it over her face. In a moment she was out in dreamland. She could hear a voice counting slowly. One potato. Two, potato. Was she about to be assaulted by Dan Quayle? A banging and clamoring at the door began. The doctor and attendants looked up temporarily diverted from the mask. Yes! Who is it? the doctor was calm not wishing to betray the irritation in his voice at being interrupted. Is Natalie in there? Were her fans a voice penetrated the door masked by the air conditioner duct noise. What are you doing to her?" This time the voice was imploring. Try her website at www.natalieruffo.com was the reply. Nothing doing that website hasnt been updated in two years. We know shes in there and has news. Natalie brushed the mask away and took on one of her powers. Its all right fans. Im in here on a break from filming. The doctor was just going to prepare a consent form. Natalie was suggestive in tone. Thats it were breaking down the door. The aggressive tone changed to one of violence and a crashing began. Turn the knob. Press the lever and turn the knob. The doctor was protective of his property. A rustle came quickly then the whoosh of the door seal being broken on the cool air inside. Natalie slowly approached the fans and hugged the biggest one. The fan jerked off her jacket and ran out to her car with ten others in pursuit. Several hands were pulling at Natalies tights trying variously to pull them over her head and slip then down off her ankles. One fan began to dump out the contents of her purse with the appearance of the brassiere being greeted with a roar of approval before it was grabbed and out the door. Please, doctor, help me. Natalie was surprised at the sound of her voice. Theyre stripping me of all I have. You should have put it on ebay The doctor was disgusted with how little dignity this great actress had in time of stress. Then just when it seemed that the actress truly would become a naked waif she summoned all of her strength and grabbed top and bottom and pulled her tights back into rough array. She bared her teeth and made menacing gestures at the fans that began to circle both Natalie and the doctor and the attendants. Elbowing quickly Natalie made a run for her car realizing too late that she did not have the keys. Fortunately she had voice control and yelled, door open just as a skinny little fan reached nearly to where she was. Slipping behind the wheel she yelled. Door lock. Engine start Reverse. Accelerate hard.

It just so happened that it was a dark and stormy night. The thick-as-two-short-planks guard huddled miserably under the scant shelter of the heavy stone lintel that graced the enormous oak door of the isolated inn. As the leather-clad guard watched, with no sign of interest, or flicker of intelligence in his vacant eyes, the glossy black coach (drawn by four perfectly matched thoroughbred horses) raced under the windlashed trees that lined the muddy carriage-way. A fortuitous flash of lightning illuminated the scene as the immaculate coach halted dramatically in the exact centre of the court yard, and the liveried hunch back driver cracked his whip above the sweating horses heads. Incidentally it struck an oak tree, the oldest tree in the area, splitting it down the middle. The two lead horses reared to show their high strung natures; shining hooves and freshly groomed fetlocks moving in perfect synchronicity as they pawed the air, whinying to announce the arrival of SOME SPECIAL PEOPLE. A stable boy materialised from the rather large and professional stable block, essential to the day to day running of every run-down, shabby looking inn in the exotic far off land of Watteverovia. He was a half-starved cheeky little urchin, with a lopsided smile and a face only a mother could love. He had a cynical turn of phrase and was smarter than he let on. For some unknown reason horses just loved him. As the hunchbacked driver of the emblazoned coach dropped his whip and jumped down from the box seat, the stable boy decided to keep well out of the way for now. He knew his opportunity for a small scene of his own would come later; somebody would be desperate to escape in the night on horseback, and would require his help. If he played his cards right, he would get to go along and be promoted to side-kick status. He slouched back to the cosy hayloft for a jug of mead and a brief flirtation with a barmaid of ill repute. This flirtation will come to nothing, as it is all a work of desparate deceipt to hide the fact that the stable boy is in fact a girl. A girl however, with secret but essential knowledge to the plot. She'll scrub up to be very shapely indeed - although you'd never know it from her cunning disguise of a bad hair cut and scruffy clothes. A dramatically handsome man stepped down from the coach, ignoring the coachman as he turned to let his dark silk cape swirl behind his well toned body (exposing his sword which is obviously worth a kings ransom) while he held his hand out to a mysterious cloaked stranger with a chest the size of a cabin trunk. Somehow, this never fell out of the two scraps of gold sewing cotton that passed for her top (she came from even more exotic climes where everybody wore that sort of stuff all the time and it wasn't rude at all) The couple entered the inn, completely ignoring the pointless and stupid guard. The inn immediately falls silent. They headed directly to the best table and a young man, who looks to be exactly the same age as the handsome strange man, heads over to serve them. The handsome man looks up at the serving man and smiles. His teeth are so white the reflection of the candle light off them is blinding. It is immediately obvious that they are two coats cut from the same cloth. The serving man doesn't notice, as he has never owned anything as posh as a mirror. Everyone else in the inn stares. It's like before and after a fashion makeover. Whispers run round the room so fast they sound like the sea tossing in the storm. "My name is Prince Twinone and this is Magesta the fatally attractive mage." said the handsome man. "Do you know why we are here?" The serving man shrugs "Cos you're hungry?" "What is your name, boy?" Prince Twinone asks, his voice full of deep meaning which goes completely over the serving mans simple head. "I haven't got a name." The serving man replied "I was left abandoned on the doorstep by a mysterious dead guardsman with nothing but an ermine and sable cloak, a sword exactly like yours and this strange birthmark to give me any clue about me" He paused to pull up his sleeve and show them all the crown shaped birthmark with the writing underneath. "My friend the stable lad said those letters look like K and I and N and G, but I can't read so I don't know what they spell." As the magnificently dressed couple stared at him, he happily started to describe the menu on offer that evening. "Well, there's stew of course, and of course there is bread and cheese, or stew with bread, or..." Prince Twinone announced in a thoroughly melodramatic voice "Your name is Prince Twintwo, and you should be king of all Watteverovia, but our fathers evil vizier took over the kingdom and disposed of you. We have come to take you to your destiny." He was interrupted by the overly beautiful mage "You are the heir to an enormous kingdom full of people who will try their best to kill you when they find you, so we must all go on a fiendishly complicated mission that will take at least three one-thousand page volumes to record in order to find a mysterious object, and possibly to beat a god so that we can save the world. I'll have the stew." "Um, I'm sorry, but I have to finish my chores here" the serving man said "One plate of stew coming up." He hurried off towards the kitchens, thinking to himself "Now, if I knew how to ride a horse, I could escape from these mad people, in the middle of the night would be best..........." You know what's going to happen next don't you? Shanna :-)

Well, I couldn't resist. This isn't terribly funny, just terribly done. I tried to break every rule on good writing that I could think of. (I didn't even spell check it!) *************** I caught just a glimpse of him as he wandered up. At 6 feet tall, with non-descript, dark brown hair, blue eyes, a medium build and lightly tanned skin, he looked like the accountant he was. The maroon polo shirt emblazoned with the Chitum and Hau logo and the dull, beige slacks did nothing for his underexercised figure that had started to go to pot. I sighed and looked at my own reflection in the window as he approached. Barely over 5 feet, with short, unstylish, mousey brown hair, myopic brown eyes, and pale, uneven skin, I was no catch, either. I looked down to my fingernails which desperately needed a new manicure and something other than baby-pink fingernail polish, and despaired. "Brenda, what's wrong?" he asked softly with a worried look. "Brian, I'm afraid that it's just not going to work out," I replied forlornly. "But, Brenda, we make sense as a couple," he argued quietly. "Everyone says we make sense as a couple, Brian, but I need my space," I replied resolutely. He tapped his foot impatiently like a little kid who wanted something. "Brenda, you've been talking with Bobbie, your best friend since 3rd grade again haven't you? You know she hates me after I accidentally spilled punch down her shirt so everyone saw her bra was stuffed with Kleenex!" he exclaimed. "Bobbie never did forgive you, Brian, but she is my best friend and she looks out for me, but that's not what brought this on," I argued resolutely. "Then what brought this on?" he queried confusedly. "What brought this on is the present that you gave me last December as an anniversary present that I hated so much that I cried for days," I replied angrily. "But you remember how I helped you return the present to the store, and I even got you that expensive ring as an apology," he countered desperately. I smoothed my ankle-length green silk skirt with deep yellow and azure trim that I'd gotten as an Easter present two years ago as I contemplated an answer. "I know you got me that 2 carat diamondelle ring with the 12 carat gold filigree, and I do love it, but I don't love you!" I jumped up and ran out the door, unable to give voice to my overwhelming despair. Brian stood there and stared at the door long after I'd fled the scene.