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I have been doing some writing experiments where I give myself one page in a spiral-bound notebook to write something, anything. I think of a topic and go. One page, non-stop, free form brain dump. The only rule I have is that I can't censor it...of course that means some of it is pretty cheesy, but that's the point of it - if I agonize over getting everything just so, it will take forever to get anything written. If you've never done it you should...it's a freeing feeling letting your mind run for a page without restraint From time to time when I have nothing in mind here, I'll let one of them drop here. Here's the first one:

He put his headphones on and immediately heard the opening strains of ELOs "Living Thing." He knew this was a bad idea. If anyone - the cops, Bertoli's men, some random civilian witness - came in, he wouldn't be able to hear them. But then, what if it was one of Bertoli's men? If they knew he was up here he'd catch a nugget in the brain anyway, and if that were the case he would prefer not to know it was coming. Cops? Civilian? No, he was safe. So, he turned up the volume a little.
The irony of the song was not lost on him. He liked the juxtaposition - hearing Jeff Lynne lament "It's a living thing....what a terrible thing to lose" just before he pulled the trigger. It was a private joke, one that only he would get, and that kept him focused. "If you can't have fun at work," he thought, "then why do it?"
The door at the side of the building opened and two of the largest men he'd ever seen came out. As they walked to the Lincoln Navigator he wondered why the lumbering giants were so often chosen as bodyguards. They're slow, immobile; easy to hit as result, and rarely knew where the real danger was coming from. Oh well, it made his job easier. He watched as the gargantuans used mirrors to sweep the underside of the car for explosives. It was almost showtime.
He drew the rifle up to his shoulder and flipped the covers out of the way of the ends of the scope. The quarter mile closed to a few feet as his eye settled in and he centered the cross hairs on the forehead of one of the two lumbering bodyguards. He let it rest for a moment, then moved it to the door as guard number two pulled it open.
A well dressed man walked out of the building. Bertoli. He was followed by three other men - Vampa, Pastore and Genoa. "This is it." he mused. "The biggest hit of my

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