Disparage

You've got to hand it old Carl. He managed to spread all of those rumours about John around the office without being the obvious source. All that stuff about John being a pedophile? Rubbish, but I heard Carl talk about it last year after John got the better review, then Carl didn't mention it at all. Two months ago it all came back into the open. All he did was leave a memo on the copier and let Annie find it. I know John worked day and night to finish the Henderson project and Carl wasn't even on the committee, but somehow Carl got the credit in the boss's e-mail. I'm telling you, the man is scum, but teflon scum.

Information provided by Petersons.com (Through my.yahoo.com.)

Notorious

All Black Bart said was that he was headed to Boomtown. That's it. He never said why he was going, who he was going to see, but we all knew about Black Bart. Boomtown cleared out, the barman of the saloon was brave enough to stay behind. He didn't want Black Bart to get thirsty, because everyone knew what happened when Bart got thisty. The sherriff ordered his youngest deputy to stay behind as well, just to keep an eye on Bart.
The rest of us hid in the hills outside of Boomtown, by the old abandonded mining camp . Two days after we heard that Black Bart was coming to town, the deputy came up the hill, panting like a steam engine goin' up a hill. Black Bart had come and gone. He spent some time in the bank, and left. We all wanted to get back home, especially the banker. He was fretting all the way back to town, worried if there was any money left in the bank.
The barman said that Black Bart smiled allthe time he was here. Paid for his drinks and left a tip. We all tried to crowd into the bank to see what was left of it, but the sherriff made us wait outside. The banker went in, trembling. We all worked up a thirst in the dusty sun waiting for him to come back out.
He finally did, told us that all the money was still in the bank, except two hundred dollars had been taken. On the desk was a note saying that Bartholomew Harris had withdrawn some money to give to his god-daughter on her fifth birthday.

Information provided by Petersons.com (Through my.yahoo.com.)

Hackneyed

He sat up all night burning the midnight oil to finish his story. It was going to knock the socks off of his audience. He'd blow them away with his characterizations, blow their minds with the plot twist. When they got to the end of his two thousand word epic they'd greet him with 'heil, writer' and give up writing themselves because they could never match his skill.
The first review: I'd rather read Dick and Jane in Welsh than read this. Nothing new, nothing exciting, totally predictable. Please please please please stop writing.

Secreted

The glistening trail running across the pavement told me a slug was nearby. I knelt down and examined it closely. It was moving to the left. I followed the trail until I found the slug working its way through the grass. Ever since I was five I've carried my special slug treasure hunting kit. My uncle showed me how ot make one. The kit only needed two things, a pair of tongs from the kitchen, and a pocket knife.
I grasped the slug with the tongs and flipped it upside down, exposing it's wierd littel body. I made a slit in it's gut, a few inches long. I know slugs don't have guts the way real animals do, but that's how I think about it.
I dug a little deeper with the knife and saw the golden strand. I pried it out and put the slug back on the grass.

Information provided by Petersons.com (Through my.yahoo.com.)

Pariah

I woke up this morning with a pair of wings attached to my back. They're not fake. I flew to school this morning and got all the crazy looks from the other students. They all avoided me today. Some of them teased me. Someone threw a box of chocolate milk on my new white wings during lunch. I went outside to shake them off, but I didn't see the principal behind me so he got showered in chocolate milk. He looked so funny, getting angry about my having wings and having chocolate milk all over him. He gave me detention and called my parents to come pick me up.
They flew into his office at 4 o'clock, and we all flew home together, laughing. Dad says I don't have to go back if I don't want to.

Information provided by Petersons.com (Through my.yahoo.com.)

Volatile

He slams his fists on his desk. She props her fists on her hips.
He sneers out of the side of his mouth. Her eyebrows vault.
His hands relax. Her brow wrinkles.
He sits down. She steps back.
He rubs his temples with his fingertips. She leans onto his desk.
His hands drop on his desk, palm up, fingers curled. She rests her elbows on the desk and puts her hands in his.
His eyes shut tightly; a tear wedges its way from the corner. She gives his hands a comforting shake.
His jaw slackens. Her mouth forms a thin line on her face.
He speaks. She slaps him.
He slaps her. The door closes behind her.

Information provided by Petersons.com (Through my.yahoo.com.)

(I have been critiqued on several occasions as writing talking head dialogues, so I figured, why not try to write a dialogue with no words?)

Confidant

Jenny's heart stammered when she saw the stuffing on the floor. Not a single stuffed animal, her friends and playmates, were in their normal place in her room. The dog had never attacked one of her stuffed animals before. Who did this to her life? She scampered around the room, putting everyone back in their homes. "Vanilla, Mary, Magnus, Willifred, Ling-Ling, ..." Soon every one of them was back where they should be but one.
"Amy?" she called out, looking under the bed. Amy was a small red penguin that she had bought for herself with her own money when she was four. For three years she told Amy about everything in her life. Now Amy was gone. The scaps of stuffing looked like they were the right size for Amy. Jenny curled herself around the stuffing and cried herself to sleep, wondering who she could tell all of her secrets to now.

Word of the Day provided by Petersons.com (Through my.yahoo.com.)

Temerity

"I don't believe you have the nerve to ask for a raise," my manager shouted at the top of his lungs. He wanted to make sure that everyone on the floor could hear him in their open cubicles. "You work 50 hours a week with no overtime, maintain a 100% call pick up rate, get every customer off the phone in 6 1/2 minutes, and you think you deserve a raise?" His face is beet red.
"That email was seen by every person in the company, record profits, all I'm saying is that the people on this floor who work their assess off share in the good news. What's the point of working ourselves to death with unrealistic expectations just so the owner, who doesn't do anything but surf porn all day, get a six-figure bonus?"
So I sit here in the unemployment office, trying to find the right words to fill in the three-inch long space for "reason for termination."

Information provided by Petersons.com (Through my.yahoo.com.)