February 11th, 2009, 04:53 PM
The Ninth Avatar
Turn write? (Forum Story?)
Has anyone ever done one of those writing exercises where they take turns writing on the same story? I haven't actually *done* one, but I've heard they are fun. Frankly, I could use the distraction today, so I'm suggesting we start one.
Let's say, limit it to 1 paragraph each person. Anyone game?
February 11th, 2009, 05:20 PM
and I like to party.
His feet were screaming and he was a million miles from anywhere.
I don't know how I know these things come to think of it,he thought.
"What the heck am I doing here!" he screamed.
It didn't really matter. No one was around. No one could hear him...
February 11th, 2009, 05:34 PM
I'm gonna move this to the collaborative stories section, where there are some good examples of this type of exercise albeit longer than one paragraph in most cases.
February 11th, 2009, 06:01 PM
The Ninth Avatar
Thanks kater, guess I didn't see that such a thing existed. Will look into it more over there.
February 12th, 2009, 03:12 AM
contains traces of nuts
... or so he believed.
The Ghost King watched him from the void. The man's thoughts fizzed like golden streams through the blank light, like urine through snow.
Think of a key, urged the Ghost King. Think of a key that'll fit this lock.
March 10th, 2009, 10:27 PM
A cold wind was blowing across the empty moors, making him shiver in his thin jacket. All he could see was thickets of heather like colorful sheep gathering around the few rocks that rose from the grass-covered peat like granite icebergs. The last thing he could remember was the pub, and someone hitting him from behind....
March 11th, 2009, 10:57 AM
The bird of Hermes
...It had been dark in the pub, he had had one too many and everything before him was a blur. People melted away as he saw the bottom of yet another tankard and he felt so cold, like ice. His heart began to pound as the shadows grew longer and the figure approached him from behind, with footsteps soft as silk...
July 9th, 2009, 02:17 PM
It would never have ended up like this if only the strange old man hadn't stopped him on his way into town. It seemed harmless at the time- to accept the free drink that he offered- but this was clearly not the result he had anticipated.
July 24th, 2009, 08:28 PM
(*a turn written story is called "Exquisite Corpse" by the early surrealists )
His insides felt as if he were on a fast descending elevator yet he still stood. The deep brown fluid had been earthy and fungal tasting. Shapes and patterns danced in the corners of his vision as the molecules attached themselves to neuro-receptor sites, he felt electric and powerful yet a subtle darkness distinctly other seemed to stir within.
Last edited by swords; July 24th, 2009 at 08:31 PM.
October 26th, 2009, 02:52 PM
it could be worse
Ok...here's my attempt to figure out what this story is about...
...and his feet continued to throb with each heart beat. Gerald turned over on his back and looked up at the clear, dark sky. A metereoite shower was in progress.
He snorted and closed his eyes. He placed his numb, near frost-biten hands over his eyes and wept. Why had he thought it a good idea to take advice from the old beggar? He should have gone into the first tavern, not the second as the old man had suggested.
As tears froze in the dry, cracks on his face, Gerald thought about the Ghost King and his damn key. If he hadn't taken on that challenge, he'd be at home, sleeping next to his warm wife instead on death's door in this empty moor.
October 27th, 2009, 03:52 PM
Just Another Philistine
On the other hand, his 'warm' wife remembered little of the warmth that had once endeared her to him, spent most of her time wondering how they were going to last another week, and had, in truth, spurred him on to this quest. Now why in all the Hells of the Lower and Middle Abyss would a Ghost King want a key? Of course, it had to be a Skeleton Key; what other kind would satisfy a ghostly presence?
Did anyone else realize the diffiulty involved with removing keys from skeletons? Well, here was a man with sufficient experience to beat the brow of any person, man, woman, child, or other, that might feel the least be curious over such matters.
Start with the interlocking puzzles of 14 phalanges on the left hand, with the key chain wound about each and every. Try to maintain the absolute silence of the graveyard whilst maneuvering naturally clattering objects. End with the vacnt skull staring its final accusations not to mention its final curses.
Not for the last time, he placed his numb, near frost-biten hands over his eyes and wept. Why had he thought it a good idea to take advice from the old beggar?
October 28th, 2009, 09:03 AM
it could be worse
(too funny! )
Because the old beggar had reminded Gerald of his uncle. His dear, entraped uncle. The very one enslaved by...the Ghost King!
A grunt from Gerald raced along with the moaning wind as he got to his feet. Hopping about the tussuck grasses, he cursed the bastards that beat him before abandoning him out in the Moors of Iberi.
He glanced up again at the sky, the star-shower's brillance abated with the rising sun. As the first day's light caressed his face, Gerald decided on what he must do next - find that beggar. Gerald was sure now that the old man was more than just a beggar.
October 29th, 2009, 10:33 AM
Just Another Philistine
He was not unaware of the oxymoron involved. All old men are more than just beggars except in their own eyes. When old men look in the mirror, the memories overpower the image and all that's left is begging for more, any more, just a little bit more, more.
Gerald initiated his trek from the moors, taking the first step, according to the rising sun, westward. Why westward? He was a young man and all young men must go west. It's a law.
By the time of his fifty-fifth step, Gerald realized that westward lay the sea and he was fairly positive the Old Man was not in the sea. A choice between the old man and the sea meant changing directions. Hemming and hawing his way, he chose to go south. It was always warmer down south wasn't it? He wanted warmer. The notion that the old man might not be south but east or, even - shudder - north made no headway in his thinking. He was looking south. Tthough it might not be homeward, angel, it was definitely an improvement over any other choice.
Last edited by Hereford Eye; October 29th, 2009 at 10:37 AM.
October 29th, 2009, 03:24 PM
it could be worse
(ok, hope I didn't go too far with this... )
After traveling south the morning through, Gerald sat atop a large rock outcrop which in turn sat on top of a low rise. He looked out at the desolate landscape and took stock of his situation. His weapons had been taken from him back at the tavern, but he still had his sack. The sack contained a sizable water skin (filled), a short length of rope, and a dry heel of bread. The small pouch with all the coin he could muster for the trip was gone. Of course. He took out the bread and tried to eat it.
He gave up gnawing on the heel when he almost chipped a tooth. Not wanting to waste perfectly good food, he placed the remainder in his sack. It might prove useful later. Gerald stretched, yawned, and realized he needed a plan. Plans were good. A plan would help him reach his goal. A plan would get this story going!
He could only be a short distance from the town he was last at, Tyme. His beer must have been drugged, rendering him senseless. Though he did recall several moments of blurry lucidity in which he noticed a number of large, burly men dragging his body about, giving it a good kick every now and then. He also remembered an uncomfortable ride on a horse-drawn cart out to the moors. So, he figured he could only be half a days’ walk away from that particular town. He couldn’t go back there as he was, he needed reinforcement.
Going south, he was bound to hit the next town, Solem. From there he could purchase more food with a day’s labor, and maybe steal a sword. Then he’ll go back to Tyme and find the old man. Gerald eyes narrowed as he started day dreaming of all the things he could do to the beggar to make him answer some questions.
Singing brought him out of his reverie. Bad singing.
“There once was a boy named Jerry,
and a girl with a name like Mary,”
Gerald sat very still and looked all around him. The owner of the rough voice, interrupted by croaks and hiccups, had to be right upon him, but he could see nothing but the short, scrubby brush around him. The voice grew closer and closer.
“His life was spent on the hunt,
to find a warm spot for a rut,”
Just when Gerald thought the voice could get no nearer without being upon him, a short thing emerged from behind a bush. It weaved about on two wobbling legs. The creature stood two feet high and, to Gerald wide eyes, appeared to be a bright, green frog dressed in black billowy pants stuffed in frog-knee-high, brown boots, and a red silk shirt neatly secured into its pant waist. The frog-pirate (or pirate-frog?) had a small, elaborately wrought sword about as tall as the frog itself strapped to its back. The sword harness crisscrossed the frog’s chest in a fashionable display of studded leather. A black hat with a large purple feather topped the ensemble. Gerald’s jaw dropped.
The frog continued its drunken singing, unaware of its audience.
“But Mary had other plans and off they went for a--”
With a flash of well coordinated movement, the frog drew its sword. It leapt onto Gerald’s chest, the tip of his sword less than inch from his left eye, driving him flat against the rock.
“Aye Matey! Who do we have here, eh? Trying to sneak up on me, ar’ ye?”
October 29th, 2009, 03:53 PM
Just Another Philistine
"And I was makin' a fairly good job of it till you lost your place in the hymn."
The dwarf blinked, then shook his head.: "Twarn't nary a hymn, boy. Twere a shitty."
"You mean ditty don't you?"
"Everyone's a critic, eh? One man's dit is another man's...."
"I get the picture," Gerald interrupted. "You planning on stayin' on my chest for some time, are you?"
"Why? You in a hurry to get somewhere? Let me disabuse you then. A and firstmost, they isn't any place 'round these parts worth gettin' to and B, the second place, you seem to be ignorin' the fact that you are now my prisoner."
"You have me there, for certain. I am doin' just most precisely that."
Confusion spread across the dwarf's face. "Which? Which are you precisely doin'?
"Forgettin' that I am your prisoner." As he spoke, Gerald stood, the dwarf tumblin' backwards, hitting and rolling athletically, coming up in an en garde stance. "Hey," the dwarf snapped, "I didn't release you."
"But, I released you," Gerald replied, "and, assumin' you don't mind too much, I am about to be on my way to Solem. I am most ferociously hungry and you don't look like you'd be much pleasant to eat."
"Open that mouth of you'rn again and I may just remove all the totality of your dentures." The dwarf waved the sword as if it were a pliers capable of performing the mission he might set it. "Then we'll set about determinin' exactly which will feast on what..er. whom shall dine on whomever. You get the picture, I'm shure.
"There's no h in sure," Gerald corrected.
"What are you, some kind of children's tutor? Don't be spelling what I'm sayin'. Just be listenin' and payin' attention."
"I'm unarmed, sir. Would you attack an unarmed man?"
"What better kind of man is there to attack, I might ask you. But, then, you'd give me some uppity answer and we'd just be wastin' more air. Let's get on with it. Give me all your valuables."
"Afraid I'm not carrying any valuable," Gerald said.
"You got a sack and it's bulgin' a bit so I'd say you got valuables and I want "em."
Gerald pulled the sack around to his front, opened it, spilled the contents on the ground. "You're quite welcome to the bread," Gerald offered, a kind of peace offering.
"Why? What's wrong with it?"
"Nothing. Just old and stale."
"In my profession, that makes it damned near priceless, boy. Why didn't you say so? We could have been over this robbery long ago both of us gettin' on wit' our lives. But, no, you gotta pull the old stall." The pirate moved forward, eyes fixed greedily on the bread. So concentrated, he left his sword on the ground, a fact Gerald took full opportunity from. When the dwarf had finished chewing the last bit of crumb available, his attention finally fixed on the point of his sword, a point now being made in the direction of his nose.
"So, you figure that's a fair trade, then?" the dwarf asked.
Last edited by Hereford Eye; October 29th, 2009 at 04:08 PM.