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Lets play a game, this might take off. Yet it may not.
Lets write a forum story. I used to play this game on long road trips. Used to be rather fun. One person writes the first line of a story (or 2 lines) and then the next person continues it with their own line or 2. Then someone else writes the next line. It will be naturally crap and will take may twists and turns. Before you add your line though copy whatever has come before it so we can keep track of what is going on.
First line:
I put the letter by my side and glanced around me. The loft was dirty and stuffy and smaller than I remembered.
Lets write a forum story. I used to play this game on long road trips. Used to be rather fun. One person writes the first line of a story (or 2 lines) and then the next person continues it with their own line or 2. Then someone else writes the next line. It will be naturally crap and will take may twists and turns. Before you add your line though copy whatever has come before it so we can keep track of what is going on.
First line:
I put the letter by my side and glanced around me. The loft was dirty and stuffy and smaller than I remembered.
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Paradox: wrote:
> I like word count
It's easier to understand as a whole if quoted in its entirety.
Nobody gives any regard to statistics anyway.
> I like word count
It's easier to understand as a whole if quoted in its entirety.
Nobody gives any regard to statistics anyway.
> "My name is Samuel." Another pause. "I'm in my
> twenties, and my surname lacks importance." He cleared his
> throat. "You, my friend, have to die."
"Why me, what have I done" A sense of horror clung onto my every word.
"You have heard too much" replied the ghoulish whispers. I felt a chill run up and down my vertebrate as if my mind wanted me to flee to safety, but my body was curious. I felt my hand rise as if drawn to a mysterious force. My fist clenched without my will, my lips parted and an absent voice uttered some words.....
> twenties, and my surname lacks importance." He cleared his
> throat. "You, my friend, have to die."
"Why me, what have I done" A sense of horror clung onto my every word.
"You have heard too much" replied the ghoulish whispers. I felt a chill run up and down my vertebrate as if my mind wanted me to flee to safety, but my body was curious. I felt my hand rise as if drawn to a mysterious force. My fist clenched without my will, my lips parted and an absent voice uttered some words.....
I like word count I like word count I like word count I like word count I like word count I like word count I like word count I like word count I like word count I like word count I like word count I like word count I like word count I like word count I like word count I like word count I like word count I like word count I like word count I like word count I like word count
What are you trying to achieve here?
Ooh - good reply! I feel all intimidated now by your dead-end witless reply.
Let me touch you in your special place.
Let me touch you in your special place.
So sue me.
Dringo wrote:
> One person writes the first line of a story (or 2 lines)
> next person continues it with their own line or 2.
Can you people not read or something?
> One person writes the first line of a story (or 2 lines)
> next person continues it with their own line or 2.
Can you people not read or something?
I put the letter by my side and glanced around me. The loft was dirty
and stuffy and smaller than I remembered. How we'd managed to get
all of that stuff up there, I didn't know, and I didn't even remember
owning half of it. The creepy suit of armour in the corner, for
instance, I swear I'd never seen before in my life. Floorboards
uncontrollably creaked as I scaled around this airless peak of
memories. A gape of light had emerged through the ceiling, gifting
the only means of exploring this dilapidated, old place.
As I pawed through a collection of forgotten poetry I turned back
towards the suit of armour. Where did it come from? Why did we have
it? And what was it doing up here?
"The question isn't where, my friend. It is when."
I was startled - I had thought I was alone. I turned on my heel in
the direction of the voice. I stopped dead, in a mixture of shock and
amazement. Behind me, in a dusty leather chair, sat an emperor
penguin, smoking a pipe.
"My name is Edmund. And I have been waiting for you."
He tipped his hat and lowered his scar-stricken flipper to his side; he had obviously been up here a long time as thick cobwebs had formed around face, almost like a makeshift beard swaying near his feet. The hint of rum was upon his breath. These teeth had yet to see a good scrub from their owner. As he neatly folded his flippers and leant back on his dusty, leather chair he a gave a dry stare that looked deep into my eyes, like a predator looking into a dark forest for its prey.
I stood quietly. I needed to compose myself.
"Let us answer your first questions. You will have assumed by now that I am a telepathic, completely literate and warm blooded penguin. But that suit -" he took his pipe out of his mouth and indicated toward the armour "- holds more relevance to your life than anything else.
"I believe I was going to tell you when it came from. To be as precise as I can be, it was Christmas. Christmas 1601."
Edmund looked at me, aware of my shock and confusion. Yet he did not do anything to calm me, instead he continued his story.
"It was found by a 20 something fellow named Samuel, I... I forget the surname but it lacks importance. Anyway, to continue with my terribly mundane sto..."
Suddenly a shot was heard in the distance and Edmund's head exploded in a cloud of blood, like a watermelon. Drenched in blood and with my eyepatch covered in brain soup, I stared blankly at the wall before whipping out my journal and carefully inspecting the remains od Edmunds decimated neck. Prodding my finger into the still pumping gush of warm blood, I felt a slight nausea, but I shook it off and proceded to unwrap my blood tankard, ready for another filling. Tonight had been a tiring effort, but I could at last have my fill...
And drank I did, until my head rushed and my eyes flared psychedelic red. My mind was subdued, but not to the extent that the second shot didn't put me on guard. The bullet hit the woodwork to my left, and I turned sharply to look for the shooter. Behind me, gun raised, was the suit of armour. He cocked the gun again. Aimed. This time he wouldn't miss. Click. He was empty.
"Who are you? What do you want with me?" I shouted.
The armour clinked as the plates knocked together as the suited figure lowered his hand. His metallic head cocked to one side slightly, as if calculating my threat. There was a brief pause, then:
"My name is Samuel." Another pause. "I'm in my twenties, and my surname lacks importance." He cleared his throat. "You, my friend, have to die."
and stuffy and smaller than I remembered. How we'd managed to get
all of that stuff up there, I didn't know, and I didn't even remember
owning half of it. The creepy suit of armour in the corner, for
instance, I swear I'd never seen before in my life. Floorboards
uncontrollably creaked as I scaled around this airless peak of
memories. A gape of light had emerged through the ceiling, gifting
the only means of exploring this dilapidated, old place.
As I pawed through a collection of forgotten poetry I turned back
towards the suit of armour. Where did it come from? Why did we have
it? And what was it doing up here?
"The question isn't where, my friend. It is when."
I was startled - I had thought I was alone. I turned on my heel in
the direction of the voice. I stopped dead, in a mixture of shock and
amazement. Behind me, in a dusty leather chair, sat an emperor
penguin, smoking a pipe.
"My name is Edmund. And I have been waiting for you."
He tipped his hat and lowered his scar-stricken flipper to his side; he had obviously been up here a long time as thick cobwebs had formed around face, almost like a makeshift beard swaying near his feet. The hint of rum was upon his breath. These teeth had yet to see a good scrub from their owner. As he neatly folded his flippers and leant back on his dusty, leather chair he a gave a dry stare that looked deep into my eyes, like a predator looking into a dark forest for its prey.
I stood quietly. I needed to compose myself.
"Let us answer your first questions. You will have assumed by now that I am a telepathic, completely literate and warm blooded penguin. But that suit -" he took his pipe out of his mouth and indicated toward the armour "- holds more relevance to your life than anything else.
"I believe I was going to tell you when it came from. To be as precise as I can be, it was Christmas. Christmas 1601."
Edmund looked at me, aware of my shock and confusion. Yet he did not do anything to calm me, instead he continued his story.
"It was found by a 20 something fellow named Samuel, I... I forget the surname but it lacks importance. Anyway, to continue with my terribly mundane sto..."
Suddenly a shot was heard in the distance and Edmund's head exploded in a cloud of blood, like a watermelon. Drenched in blood and with my eyepatch covered in brain soup, I stared blankly at the wall before whipping out my journal and carefully inspecting the remains od Edmunds decimated neck. Prodding my finger into the still pumping gush of warm blood, I felt a slight nausea, but I shook it off and proceded to unwrap my blood tankard, ready for another filling. Tonight had been a tiring effort, but I could at last have my fill...
And drank I did, until my head rushed and my eyes flared psychedelic red. My mind was subdued, but not to the extent that the second shot didn't put me on guard. The bullet hit the woodwork to my left, and I turned sharply to look for the shooter. Behind me, gun raised, was the suit of armour. He cocked the gun again. Aimed. This time he wouldn't miss. Click. He was empty.
"Who are you? What do you want with me?" I shouted.
The armour clinked as the plates knocked together as the suited figure lowered his hand. His metallic head cocked to one side slightly, as if calculating my threat. There was a brief pause, then:
"My name is Samuel." Another pause. "I'm in my twenties, and my surname lacks importance." He cleared his throat. "You, my friend, have to die."
You come in here giving it the Barry Chuckle and you're bound to get burnt.
Who rattled J-42's cage?
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