Well, gentle reader, we have, once again, taken the art of story telling and flogged it like a two-bit whore in an alleyway. By which, I mean, a few members of the High Plains Writers got together last Friday and took part in one of our favorite writing exercises. I don't know if there is a formal name for it, but I like to call it Blind Writing.
The concept is simple. Take a piece of paper and write three to four lines of fiction, then fold the paper so only the last line is showing. Hand it off to the next author and they use the last line to write another set of lines, after which they again fold the paper so the last line is showing. Rinse, repeat. Do so until you have either filled the page or until you collapse from exhaustion.
Our latest Frankensteinian effort is posted below. A transcript follows for those who don't want to play scrawl crawl with the original.
Everything was just peachy-keen that Spring day until everyone realized
that the shrimp-boil had been compromised. This would be no big deal
except that there wasn't any toilet paper in any of the stalls, so
she reached under the stall and grabbed the ankle of the person
next to her. After wrestling their socks off, she wiped and ran.
She didn't realize until three blocks later that she had left her
chihuahua behind and was still holding the stranger's shoe. No matter.
In the mean time, while holding the stranger's shoe, I turned
around to look at the chihuahua. "Well, I guess we'll just
have to go our own way." So we walked in the other direction
because our hemorrhoids were hurting and we needed
a soft place to sit. We went home, put preparation H
on our butts and watched "Game of Thrones."
This would have been fine except for the fact that there was also a
Ru Paul marathon on so we flipped for it: the loser would have to
run out for more shitter paper and pixie stix which were on sale at
Come-n-go for $1.99 if you also purchased a Big Gulp.
But that would never satisfy her for long. She knew
that only the refreshing taste of avocado rice milk would
keep her going. The very idea of putting anything less in her
was beyond thought. Only the finest, most expensive
amaretto was good enough for tiramisu that she would eat.
Or was it? She thought for a moment. Maybe just
a smidgen of Baily's Irish Cream might give
the tiramisu a kick. She sipped on her vodka.
What she really needed was to get laid
by that hot dude at the gym. "Good luck," said the weird
asymmetrically-faced weird checkout dude at Albertson's.
She wasn't sure that was a sign of hop, but she'd take
any bit of hope she could.
There you go. Another tale of daring don't. Stay tuned for future endeavors of hilarity.