Oh, the joys of the everyone writes one sentence and then passes it along group activity.
My grandfather was a smelly, foul-humored Irishman. When he died I inherited none of his wealth, but only a peculiar locked box. It was about five inches long, carved from what looked like a fossilized potato, and I could only imagine what was inside. I decided it was a box best opened a good distance between meals, so as not to ruin one completely. After a lunch of ham-and-garganzola sandwiches, I went to my room and set the box in my lap, my fingers poised on the tarnished latch. I opened the box, and the familiar Irish smell of o'erwhelming filth rose to my nostrils - I staggered under its influence, and also out of surprise. Inside, I found a little man covered entirely in red, downy hair. Inside the box was the rarest of all Lucky Charms: the beige trapezoid. Immediately, I was overcome with ecstasy and I headed down to the pub, images of celebratory bottles dancing in my head. I was half the way to the pub when I felt movement in my pocket. The beige trapezoid flew out of my pocket and into a nearby horse, transforming it into the bloody unicorn of my dreams, fell and terrible against the autumn sky.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Group writing activity from November the eighth
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3 comments:
Here is a second one from the group:
When I was a child I dreamt of monsters every night. And every night, the monsters dreamt of me...suductivley snapping my retainers into my mouth before settling into sleep. The faint chittering they emanated just barely reached my room, though I remember it terrifying all the same. When I turned 8, however, I realized that I had within me a secret weapon that would make the monstes qake in sheer terror.
The doctors never explained to me why there was a battle-axe nestled between my spleen and kidneys, although I always suspected it had happened during my botched knee surgery. It was however useful when the night got too scary, to clutch at the hidden power.
One day, when the chittering was particularly powerful I thought to use that magnificant axe, somehow failing to anticipate how difficult it would be to unsheath.
I raised one fist in fury, clutched my stomach at the ready with my other hand, and was halfway through the battle cry when I realized there might be a problem. Although I had indeed retrieved the battle-axe from within my body, I was now bleeding uncontrolably and was starting to feel queer. However, there were no monsters around, so I had won a small victory, and I had a kickass axe for however long that happened to be.
The unwitting author titled her dissertation "A Prelude to Quaaludes: the Retrojustification of American Society, Pre-1970's." I do not believe he realized that he would never have the chance to submit it to his dissertation committee for the next day he descended completely unawares into the basement. The angry mob had been waiting all morning, pitchforks in hand, to catch him at his most vulnerable moment. "What's all this about?" she asked blearily. "Why're you all carrying tridents?" A particularly bold-looking peasant opened his mouth to reply only to close it, looking confused; trident was not a word he knew. The author was growing angry, and as quick as a molester flashes his pee-pee at a sorority girl, the author (he now) has whipped out his dagger-flute and summoned his Dragonzord. And the Dragonzord was not enough-- the sheer anger of the peasants had been grossly underestimated. From in their midst the peasants (now pheasants) pulled forth Godzilla. Godzilla's atomic breath melted a hole through the Dragonzord's chest carapace,a hole through the erstwhile professor's soul. "Good heavens!" cried the professor (still male, now British). "Is that Mothra emerging from behind the house?!?!?" "Yes!" cried Mothra, pulling on a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, "And I'd love to hear your theories on the 1980's Post-Bigfuckinghairism."
Annnnd this one!
He was so happy to be leaving prison that he did not realize the man was following him. It was a cloudy, humid day, which didn't seem right somehow-- but this was a small detail, which paled in the face of the warm summer air, the smell of the ozone, the feel of freedom-- the sound of tiny footsteps behind him... He paused a moment, listening. The footsteps stopped, too. He started walking again, quicker this time, and the sound of the tiny footsteps behind him quickened, too. As he entered the Old Forest that surrounded the prison, the faint chittering of his pursuer was lost in the midst of the melancholy susurrus of the trees. But still, the pursuer was surely there-- after passing a tree, the birds were still chirping, but after a few minutes they fell completely silent. He attempted to whistle a cheery tune to distract himself, he really shouldn't kill anyone so soon after being released. But the temptation was so great... the magnificent, bloody unicorn that the prison psychiatrist had said was naught but a delusion, had already returned to the deep crevices of his mind. "You are unclean!" bellowed the unicorn, "I shall gore you with my sparkley horn!" "KYAAAAAAAAA
!!!" shrieked the escaped prisoner with such force that his nipples were projected from his body. Razor sharp, his nipples impaled the unicorn, killing it. "Well that was easy," remarked the prisoner, and he went on to live a fulfilling life full of love and stabbing.
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