MetaChat - Continue the Story.

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23 June 2005

Continue the Story. The Drabbles thread the other day was wonderful...so many gorgeous little stories. Knowing what gifted writers we have here, maybe another mental exercise might be fun? Just continue the story...a word, a sentence, a paragraph. Illustrating the story or providing a graphic is good, too, if that's more your thing.

post by: iconomy at: 09:05 | 33 comments

The dented tin finally popped open, with a satisfying little ping. He could smell the contents even before he could see them.

Tea. Some kind of dried flowers, maybe. He wasn't sure. He put the tin back on the shelf and continued foraging through the pantry for something to eat.

posted by iconomy 23 June | 09:06

He could hear the singing from there--every morning it was the same tune, sung loudly, off-key, and echoing off the shower tiles.

posted by amberglow 23 June | 09:18

Who was this "sunshine?" Why did she make the singer so happy? Why was he so desperate that she not go?

He continued looking for the raisins he knew had to be somewhere.

posted by Hugh Janus 23 June | 09:21

There was a knock at the front door. Standing there was the Fedex guy, holding a small, flat package. "Sign here, please," the Fedex guy said.

It was only after he had brought the package back into the kitchen, that he noticed that the name on the package was not his. When he opened the front door again, the Fedex van was already disappearing down the street.

posted by carter 23 June | 10:30

He stood for a few moments, frozen with indecision. To open the package or not.

The singer in the shower hit an exceptionally off note. For some reason that later he would attempt to explain logically but be unable to in a satisfactory way, that note decided it: he would open the package.

posted by papercake 23 June | 10:45

It was empty.

posted by andrew cooke 23 June | 10:55

Placing the package on the rough hewn oak of his grandfathers killing table, he pulled out his trusty hunting knife and swung it violently at the package cutting deeply into the corrugated cardboard flesh of it.

There was a moment of indecision, a miniscule vibration across the ether.

The the package split asunder, and he stared with wonder at its marvelous contents.

posted by seanyboy 23 June | 10:57

FYI: I found this automatic Drabble Generator out on the web. Its kind of geared more toward Fan Fiction, but its a cool toy....

posted by anastasiav 23 June | 11:10

The the package split asunder, and he stared with wonder at its marvelous contents.
And
It was empty.
Hmm...

He felt as if the secrets of the universe were laid bare before him, as he beheld, with eyes suddenly grown keener than any living thing's had ever been, the creation and annihilation of millions, billions of subatomic particles and their counterparts, the miracle of zero-point energy.

posted by kenko 23 June | 11:11

The miracle of zero point energy resolved itself with a jerky swirl of multicolored lights that would have been laughed at by the special effects team of a 1970's era Turkish science fiction film. Seventeen tiny chihuahuas stared back at him, equally amazed. Amazed at his sweaty moon face in the suddenly chilled air, amazed that the knife missed them all. Amazed that for the first time, a human being had seem them as they truely preferred to be, dressed in liederhosen and eyes rimmed with khol, small wafts of incense floating up from bejeweled censors hung over each tiny shoulder. One dog broke its trance, walked to the edge of the killing table and looked up at him, with an air of reluctance as if having to make an unwanted confession.

posted by Divine_Wino 23 June | 11:17

As the dog approached, he could hear a plaintive "meeewh!" coming from the box, even though no cat was visible. A scan of the label revealed that his neighbor's name was Emily Schrodinger.

posted by PyschoKitty 23 June | 11:19

As the dog approached, he could hear a plaintive "meeewh!" coming from the box, even though no cat was visible. A scan of the label revealed that his neighbor's name was Emily Schroedinger.

(edit, entered again, because I realized I had a typo in my username...which is terribly embarrassing...let's pretend it didn't happen, shall we?)

posted by PsychoKitty 23 June | 11:23

"Are you Schroedinger's cat?" he asked.
"Might be." said the cat. "But then again, I might not be. Or I might and I might not be. All I knows is that some milk might be nice."

posted by seanyboy 23 June | 11:30

he paused. his stomach was empty. the dog stared up at him. the knife was in his hand. the day was warm. a bead of sweat ran into his eye. the dog waited.

the knife's blade was grey steel. he had sharpened it the day before: drawing it against the oiled stone to restore the edge; shifting his hold for the final bevel; testing against his thumb.

he blinked.

posted by andrew cooke 23 June | 11:31

"Tasty looking dog." commented the cat. "I'd go for the dog. But then again, I wouldn't. If you know what I mean."

posted by seanyboy 23 June | 11:39

"I'd hit it," said the dog. "If you know what I mean. But I'm a little twisted that way." The other 16 chihuahuas nodded, then looked embarrassed. One whispered "Yeah. He is that way. But it's okay, really, we've all learned to accept him as he is."

posted by mygothlaundry 23 June | 11:46

Agitated by the talking animals he swung wildly and they scattered. The cold steel encountered no resistance as it floated through the cardboard and even the table, and the unexpected momentum of his arm jerked his body around to the right.

He blinked again, and gasped. He felt something warm on his right leg, and looked down numbly to see one of the dogs lapping at his exposed kneecap.

A drop of blood fell from the knife.

posted by kenko 23 June | 11:55

He blinked again. Continued testing the knife against his thumb. A balloon of blood beaded at the knifes edge, burst like the ungranted promise of a child's party dream. He nodded his head forward, grey eyes, grey skin, grey knife. And blinked.

"Dogs don't talk." he said. His voice, deliberate and slow.

posted by seanyboy 23 June | 11:56

Damn you kenko. I'm too slow with the post button

posted by seanyboy 23 June | 11:57

"whoopsy." said the cat. And sniggered. "Looks like Mr Steal the Secret of Zero Point Energy has done a booby on his kneesy-weesy."

posted by seanyboy 23 June | 12:02

"NO BABY TALK, CAT" boomed a hollow voice, seemingly from all directions at once, the cat dissapeared, as if never there. The split moment resolved itself, the rip in the fabric of space and time healed itself with a faint pop and a smell of hair gel, his leg no longer cut, his eyes no longer gray. His words, however hung in the air, perhaps preserved by whatever agency deleted the cat.

The dog, smiled with faint sympathy. "If dogs talking is what is troubling you about this whole deal pal, you're gonna be shitting nickels in about twelve seconds." The dog glanced at his watch, a vintage calculator model, a Seico Ladykiller, in fact.

posted by Divine_Wino 23 June | 12:07

Dan Brown straightened back from his industrial strength typewriter. Another chapter finished and he felt good. He looked across the darkened room. Something seemed wrong, seemed like it had been put out of place in a distinctive and puzzling way.

posted by seanyboy 23 June | 12:29

dood, pomo

The famous author realized what was wrong: he had been typing in a darkened room and his eyes hurt! He switched the light on, and the sudden in the sudden brightness reflexively blinked. He went back to his seat and looked over the page with a sense of satisfaction, then jerked straight up. The light switch—didn't it used to be on the other side of the room? He stood stock-metaphor still, not even noticing the mewling kitten, Emily, that entered the room.

posted by kenko 23 June | 12:35

~~the sudden~~

posted by kenko 23 June | 12:35

Emily, which although many people thought it meant "happy" actually had much older etymological roots. In ancient Sans-Serif, he knew that Emily meant "Mother" or "Continue" or "Story".

"Continue the story, Mother" he pondered, the light glancing off his manly and yet intellectual jaw. He sat down and continued to write.

posted by seanyboy 23 June | 13:02

The two-legged giant towered above me. What did it do all day, sitting at the clicking box? And is it going to feed me?

The food here is OK - Whiskas. It makes living with this clumsy, ugly-smelling brute tolerable. Look at the way it walks, constantly off-balance. No balance. No poise.

It. I keep calling it "it". Does it have a sex? Somewhere under its removable skin?

posted by andrew cooke 23 June | 13:04

See that dustball over there?

It's moving. Wait....

Yes, it's moving.

Wait....

Yes, it moved again.

Oops, my paw just got dirty. I'd better clean it now.

posted by mudpuppie 23 June | 13:15

Hey, this dirt from between my paws tastes like shit! How'd that get there? Who cares? It does make my gotch smell funny when I'm done "cleaning" it.

Look out!

posted by Hugh Janus 23 June | 13:28

It just laughed at me. Keep calm. Don't show how much it hurts. The bastard. I'll wash my nose. Hmm. That shit smell again. What's it doing now? Looking away. OK, now's my chance. Claws OK? Check. It's wearing a thin shirt? Check. Carrying a mug of hot tea? Check. It won't be laughing after this.

Crouch.

3

2

1

posted by andrew cooke 23 June | 14:06

3

2

1

...time's up folks. We'll need your answer now."

Stanley Allsmith turned away from the game show and cocked his head. He could have sworn he heard a muffled scream coming from the brownstone across the street. That author fellow's place. He had moved in last year during all the hooplah over that blasphemous book of his. Him and that damn cat. That damn creepy cat.

posted by LeeJay 23 June | 15:23

Now bunnies, on the other hand. Dependable. When the chips are down, they'll be around, with their undying, death-defying love for me. Love them bunnies.

"How do I make fire?"

posted by Hugh Janus 23 June | 15:50

Startled, Stanley gave a little jump. The can of Yoohoo slid from his good hand and landed soundlessly in the thick white of his alpaca throw rug. "How do I make fire?" the voice repeated. It was a deep, masculine voice, but the intonation sing-songy, like a child's. Stanley swung his head from side to side violently, all the while snorting with rage. "No more fire!" he hissed, windmilling his arm and stump to keep the voice at bay. "You- you show yourself, coward! Where are you?"
The phantom limb materialized at the foot of the television stand. It was clad in purple spandex with black piping describing a stylized web across it's forearm. In it's hand Lady Mitzee dangle by her floppy ears. Her nose was a blur of twitches. "Do I use a flint?" it trilled.

posted by maryh 23 June | 18:30

It was the trilling that woke Stanley up, with a scream. He'd had that nightmare every night for the past week.

posted by amberglow 23 June | 20:40

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