She hated his job the most.

He tucked her hair behind her ear. Thought went out the window.

"We could run away," he said with lips and tongue. "I'd protect you."

"A-HEM." Moments later, daddy made himself known. Macking within view of the trailer? What was she thinking?

"Evening, Officer."

He had finals, Training, Violin practice, work, exercise, Shower, sleep. He sat in the library studying. She skipped across the room, carefree joy upon her face. Her skin was grey and she was curvy in the best sort of way. He was supposed to do something. What was he thinking?

Staring at the photo didn't change the details. She smiled. He smiled. Noel looked deeper for clues. What made her smile like that? What could she possibly be thinking when this photo had been taken?

Did it matter? Noel hid the picture under a pile of papers. She couldn't remember.

He didn’t hunt to kill anymore because of her. He wasn’t immortal because of her. His rage built as he stalked prey down the dangerous streets of new York in the a.m. hours. He whispered it into her ear as her blood flowed into his mouth. “What was I thinking?”

Face palm. Head desk.

These were phrases which Slate had never quite grasped; an emotion he had yet to experience.

"Katrina, we need more toothpaste. Will you—"

The ring sat in front of him, its shine a cold reproach: had it waited a century for that?

Face palm. Head desk.

Calleycat said that players may suggest prompts for this challenge, and it's been a little while since the last one...so...

The Prompt:
This feels like heaven.[/b]

Every hair on his body was out of place already, but the hand just. kept. ruffling. Nothing was sacred: not his back, not his head, not even that spot under his chin. He rolled on his stomach, vainly trying to escape—but the hand, it followed.

Purr.

This was Heaven.

Alice stared at the beautiful slice of cheesecake sitting in front of her, at the perfect swirl of whipped cream topping it, the creamy, cheesy richness of the center, and the graham cracker bottom stabilizing the rest of the masterpiece. She tried not to drool.

Fork. Cheesecake. Mouth. Mmm…

“Heaven.”

The restaurant had made her feel like she was at home long before she had one. Sweet and sour, egg foo young, Moo Goo Gai Pan, fried ice cream, Mongolian beef, pork, chicken, fish..... SHRIMP! She was to prideful to admit that she drooled now and then. So shoot her. She wasn't purrrfect. No one was.

Just to shake things up a bit and keep those creative juices flowing, I'm (once again) tossing down the 50 word gauntlet. Anybody can write, but can you tell a complete story in just fifty words? I think this is a fun way to stretch our story telling skills.

Here is a refresher on the rules:
Look at the prompt, choose a character, and write a short story that fits both the prompt and the character. You don't have to include the words of the prompt in your submission, but it does have to obviously relate.

You get fifty words exactly. No more. No less.

If you have a suggestion for a future 50 Word Challenge prompt, PM me.

So are you up to the challenge? Good. Because here's the first prompt of 2014:
What we remember becomes folklore.

History becomes folklore, folklore turns to fairytales, from fairytales we find bedtime stories.

“…the end.”

Glancing at his 'avid audience' a faint grin came to Simons lips as he placed the book away, sparing a moment to draw the blankets over his sleeping nephew before leaving the child to dream.

History was full of human suffering and saturated in blood. Murder and mayhem committed in the names of countless gods and goddesses, of rage and twisted ambition. Isabel did it for fun.

She'd put her name in those books, would be remembered for years to come. She would become legendary.

History repeats.

And whispers repeat, though they were interrupted sometimes.

Whispers in broken buildings; "I heard--" crack, and screams.

Whispers by fires; "I saw--" long hair, blades made from bones.

Whispers over drinks in the sky; "Just like Amazons!"

And sometimes, whispers were heard.

Myths are the history we want.

“He's strong.” Antoinette commented, dropping the binoculars from her eyes. “Almost legendary around here.”

Megan snorted, eyes closed as she used her spiders to get a closer view of their target.

“Even legends die sometime.” She grumbled back, fidgeting as one of her legs started to go to sleep.

Draw.

She sometimes got memories, distracting like daydreams.

Exhale.

Did she take down a building? Puff. Did she launch cars off the Brooklyn Bridge? Puff.

Smoke hung heavy until the wind refreshed Lori's oxygen supply.

Yeah and Pecos Bill really lassoed tornado.

She stubbed her cig and left it behind.