Part 1A, by dragonblink
“It’s times like this,” he intoned morosely, “that I wish I could get drunk.”
I looked up from my work and squinted across the table at him. “It’s not as great as you think. Well ... not the next day at least.”
“Pfft.” He tilted his chair back to an improbable angle, closed his eyes, and dropped his heels on the table.
“Pfft yourself,” I said, trying to extricate my pen from underneath his boots. “God only knows what you’d do halfway down the bottle. Look, we’ve got to get this done --”
“It’s like that story. You know, with the people in the room and they can’t get away from each other.”
“Sartre,” I muttered. How could his feet be so heavy?
“Yeah. You don’t know what something’s really like unless you can’t get away. Unless you can’t even blink.”
“You can blink. I’ve seen you.” I fumbled for a better grip on my pen.
“But. That’s not the point. At the end, when the one guy, he said -- hmm, what was it ...”
I chose that moment to free my pen with a solid yank. If I’d done that to anyone else, they’d’ve fallen over backwards.
Part 1B, by heathwitch
Instead, his eyes popped open.
"Look, we’ve got to get this done," I repeated, waving my pen in front of his face. "Remember?"
Blaine continued to sulk. "Is boring."
"I know this, you know this, we all know this. But it still needs to get done." Now I was wishing for a drink.
"Pfft." He sat up, dropped his boots from the table, and scratched behind one ear. "Can’t we just -– y’know -– go find something better t’do? Like a game or something? Or that coffee you wanted earlier -– we could go get a huge --"
"-— or we could just go out, y’know, on the town like –-"
"-— just the two o’us. Come on, it be fun."
"Blaine!" I snapped, bringing my fist down hard on the table and glaring at him. "It needs doing. Now. As in, right this minute. Immediately. Pronto. Understand me?"
Blaine’s face fell further -– if it were at all possible -– and his huge frame shuddered with a sigh. "All right, all right." Scowling, he looked over at the parchment. "But this is only a favour, geddit?"
"A favour for you," I snapped irritably. How had he dragged me into this, again?
Part 1C, by aylara
The glass door swung inward as the black-clad man strode forward, confident, cloak swirling around a pair of dusty brown boots. He drew twin pistols from low-slung weatherbeaten holsters...pistols with ancient, ivory handles, worn from the hands of generations of gunslingers. The guns had been passed down, father to son, again and again, each one trained in the care and handling of such exquisite weaponry.
Their value could not be measured. Nor could the gunslinger's skill.
His weathered, lined face turned toward them, guns held with perfect ease, one trained at each of their heads. Both were filled with the cold certainty that he could kill them both, instantly, simultaneously. He dropped the guns.
"Go," he said.
They looked at each other for just an instant, then slowly stood. Every other person had frozen, staring, wide-eyed. The pair walked out the front door, out into the cold sunshine.
The explosion behind them took them completely by surprise.
Part 1D, by jeffrey
"See, that's what I don't get." Her voice rang out like a siren, piercing him straight to the bone. "These two people are having a nice conversation, and suddenly this guy walks in with guns."
"What's the problem?" Mickey asked, his face scrunched up in confusion.
"Well, it doesn't make much sense."
"It's like three different people wrote this or something. It feels disjointed; like each new part doesn't go quite where you intended it to." She stared at him, trying to force the comprehension into his brain.
"Are you saying I plagiarized?!" Mickey's voice rose as it always did when he got too worked up over something.
"No, not at all. I just don't get it." She pointed down to the page to accentuate her point. "Look. Here's an explosion."
"Yeah, with lots of fire and hurting!"
She rolled her eyes. "But why was there an explosion?”
Mickey thought for a moment, and then shrugged. "I have no idea."
"You can't write like that! It's insane."
"I can write however I want to," Mickey defended, thumbing his chest for emphasis. "I suppose you think you could do better?"
She smiled at him. "I thought you'd never ask."
Back to you, dragonblink. :)