What happens when you get a group of adults together and ask them to write stories together? You get these.
A piece of paper is past around the party. The first person writes for one minute about anything. When he’s done, he hands it to the next person, concealing all but the last line of writing. They then hand the paper to the next person and they do the same thing. There you go, you get stories a party wrote.
“The breeze gently blew the empty swing and the birds overhead. Birdie Sue opened her pouch to feed her feathered friends who kept her daily company. She wept over the loss of bird food, hoping to feed her birds more. The one bird chirped. Her song rang clear over the forest glens and, warbling, went down to ever vale. “Ay! The bird chirps for freedom! Oui lads! Oui!” So Angus McDirk climbed atop Milky and rode off to chop some English heads. They would roll one after the other like melons. Or cabbages. Or oranges. Anyways, they would roll. The problem was achieving this without their bodies being dis-attached or souls being severed from corporeal matter to a bumbling intellectual man of hedonism and overzealous ramblings in quandaries of ducks. “How do they float? What velocity dictates that a duck at full sail can travel no less quickly, but recited the Merry Christmas Wish List. Santa, he said, was on Holiday, so he was taking his place this year around. The children gathered around him, reluctant, but mother-forced, and heard rapidshot. No! No! I hate this videogame. But Dwayne, you must practice if you’ll ever advance to the rank of your grandfather – the great poobah-wan-kenobie. He grasped the controls even tighter and wrenched the thermostat to high. It was now up to him. If he cannot get the heat on, the tomato plants will die and no more sauce will be made this year.”
“A young girl lived in the woods of Ardenue. Twelve years prior, her mama met a man smoking a cigarette and he gave her Antoinette on a dark night. He looked at her through the bars and wondered how it had come to this. How could she have lost all her hair, she who had once dyed sheep a pickled green with bright raving stripes down her head. I knew which I wanted to win. The one front and center was too fat. The one to the left had eyes filled with conceit. I wanted the one in the back to take me to get a snack. The snacks in Paradise were heavenly. Full of charm and spice. He reluctantly stepped forward, with his eyes on the ground, and put out his hand for me to take it or leave it, said the judge. There was no more time to consider the offer – the executioner was seen through the open window. Quickly, he grabbed for his magic cloak nd dashed out into the gloomy night. If only he could reach them before daylight, perhaps, he might be able to set this horrid misunderstanding straight. He had pooped his wet, already grotesque, pants. He sat in filth waiting for his unicorn. Thomas Albacore could never get his shoes on right. So he asked the unicorn to show him how. But Butterfly just stared at our poor orphan hers and chewed his hair. Little James then decided that the peanut could only be from that last peanut tree. He lifted it reverently and set off towards the distant mountains, where far away a land of promise and Cheese beckoned where he would plant his peanut, the last one, and renew the world.”
“Everything sucked. For a world with no atmosphere, what would you expect? We didn’t necessarily need many things like oxygen and beauty, we learned to do without. Without…what? A hat? Michael the archangel of the Gabrels will change the hats of every dreamy follower. Good thing, too, that cows have multiple stomachs. If they didn’t, it wouldn’t be possible to safely remove the ticking – the incessant ticking. Her head filled with dreadful thoughts of what the end of the ticking off of time might mean – but she could not understand Billy, for he was a retarded farmer. Billy used a flock of his pure-bred midgets for plowing his fields of roast rutabagas. The king of Idaho was such an overbearing fart. All-wool clothing and rainbow socks. “I’m eatin’ up the land, Stan!” he’d say with a twitch in his orange-red beard. But Thomas Anklemore couldn’t ride a two headed mongoose. He didn’t have the right bridle. Also, his boots pinched at the heel. The truth was, he could only walk up and down the courtyard or mince like a girl in the picture gallery. Thomas Anklemore was lay and well-natured and very very well fed. He a pig, but this is no real surprise. He was unique in his resolute commonality. More common than any pig. Like a great fat Isha made from Ish. So much more than Mary-Slurpin’-Urchins, who sat all day on the edge of the sailboat, dreaming of faraway places she’d never be allowed to go. The end.”
“‘Laura! Laura! Come over and get more-a! La-da-da-da-dora! If I had to sleep, I would kill-a!’ He screamed from the top of the mediocre hat. Far away in distant lands, where passing ruffians pondered pointless paradigms the screeching wombats. All time seemed to screech to a halt as suddenly silence punctuated the air. Wind howled in the distance filling in the empty silence. The only sound that had cracked the empty silence was a moan, deep from the heart of a man whose heart had turned to flesh. He loved the fanciful dances of three-headed buffalo warriors. But they could never decide on a rhythm, so they choose Alamis Morisette – her dulcet croon sending shivers down the shanks of every proud chief at small Big-Huge. They would argue for hours about the merit of beaver spirit versus wold spirit. Should a man take more than two wives? Yehs. Providing he had more patience thn the lake, enough money, and more than two nuts. O were I sure that thin jacket hadn’t been worn I’d wear it. Frayed at the edges and marked at the center and just altogether muddled and spangrawled! But no room. The shop was closing and the rain beginning. At five-til, he sighed and walked to the store door to flip the sign. Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, there stood a little girl in black-and-white. His blood ran bold and he made a dash for the back of the bus. But too late; the wave had begun enveloping the people at the front who melted and then disappeared from sight. But did they?”
“The bomb alarm sounded, and in one hand, the frightened girl grasped her mom’s hand and, in the other, her little teddy bear. “Bearskin rug! That’d look great under my new porcelain bidet!” Alfred White Northhead stroke his whitehead and could think of no reason that he should not buy the ugly hound dog with the scar. It seemed like a good deal. He took another deep draught of beer. “Yo hell,” he yelled, “Yo hell! A bottle of man and a keg of black powder.” The table shook and the floor rumbled and did a hey-nanny-nanny-and hit her nose – which was a popular rhythm at the time. It went like this: thumpa-thumpa-thum-thum-stand on my tumm. He did so with a cheerful grin, a porcelain garden gnome as happy as a clam. Without a pause, he mis-stepped. Dang it! she said. You practice this for weeks and you can’t even remember what comes next? I had to admit, though I did remember, I was distracted. The flashy blonde in the red-sequined dress had blown his cover. There was no way for him to remain indifferently disinterested now – not with her in the room. ‘Why Lisa, why, why?!” He exclaimed with his arms thrusted into the thick air. He wished he could. But she just couldn’t get grandmas into the freezer. No matter how she pushed and shoved, she didn’t fit. And so we have the origin of pettifores. An homage to the lingering-sweet taste that Grandma Rose left on all Annie’s food.”
“Sunlight glistened on the cold waters of the lake. The cry of loons mourned through the mist, making her heart ache within. The man dreamed all day of his beloved pet seal who had gone to the ocean. She found sweeter fish in the arms of another. Another that smelled of old wine and ruminated on the finer point of Trinitarian theology. That’s why she beat the hedgehog with her fists. It made her repent of all her wickedness. It was also hard on the hedgehog. She laughed. That didn’t matter, as long as she continued on her pilgrimage of the mind. “I will destroy the orphanage if it’s the last thing I do. Jam four nulla mourest! When the skies darken, I will be free!” He had long awaited the consummation of a pretty unlucky well fastened fastener that spoke of a coming fate to change the fate of the fates. They’d get screwed this time out, oh-hoy-hoy! He took the knife from the dining table nd lunged at the three sandy-blonde-haired girls. They said nothing, but put their hands out and wagged their tongues. Praise Allah! (ul-la-late profusely). Just then, an arrow pierced his neck with a message written in Sanskrit. Why did he ever buy bubblegum? This always happened, and he should know better by now. His tongue throbbed and swelled inside his mouth and he spit the gum out in disgust. He cried out in dismay at the horror displayed in front of him…Santa hadn’t eaten His Christmas cookies. The End!”
“Hear my own ones, a tale of woe. It began on a warm day, not too hot and not too cold, with that weird sort of winking and signaling with hands and feet. He was persnickety. The old crotchety mom with tufts of hair that smelled of an onion. He peeled it like he would his pet cat, Obfuscate, who tilted and turned whenever he brought the knife near. But, one day, Obfuscate the Cat saw the outline of a small bird in the shadows, the shiny black eye reflecting the moonlight off the top of the bald man’s head. She leaned over and kissed it tenderly, grateful for the kindness she alone knew resided in the sweet thoughts of this man. The only thought he had was, “I want pancakes. I love pancakes.” This is why he was found sitting duct-taped in his chair covered in syrup. She unwrapped the chair, strew him up and tossed him in the microwave. Two minutes 15 seconds. Her arch-rival withered under the pulsing glow of Kenmore Brand “Power-wave” micro’ oven. And so the night passed uneventfully. But the day began with breakfast. Stewed and crunched marmoset. Nigel Finklebottom groaned and took a bite after pinching his nose Finklebottom arose to greet the rest of the day. But Nigel knew that it was not to be. Such hope for the day was crushed like that old lady in the news who fell upon a sack of carrots.”
“‘Who’s calling?’ asked the old woman of the hall. ‘If you’re here for food, I got none for myself as it is.’ There was a pause. She made her way forward, down the long dark apartment hall. She couldn’t see anything. As she got further, her anticipation in days of old when magic filled the air and minstrels leaping and trolloping through the refuse-strewn streets. One minstrel caught a glint in the dark. A small red gem glided out of the gloom. “How come no one’s noticed?” Maybe it was just her. Her heart did long for beauty above all things. Dangerous beauty. Untold beauty of the farthest shores of whitest rock. But I knew as none could yet tell of a secret monster hidden in the cleft of that rock. Her many eyes enfold passing travelers in their stern gaze. The gazes pierced every soul like a stiff-staff-you-know, one of those lazer anti-microbial guns. Hans liked to pretend he was a she, but it never worked out in the end. (So much for scatological eschatology.) Never did it think that Superman would be able to find out its secret. It shrieked in a mannish effeminate way, you know thyself – to thine own self be true. Such foolish ideas are passed on to future generations by the sheer beauty with which they are uttered – yet no one has ever quite challenged the danger – or if they have – we remember them not. Nor has any grandfather or mother not recalled the deeds of Butterbrick the One-leg. A fine viking in his own right. And thus we have determined the true meaning of butter – a fine and sweet blonde midget.”
“There was a boy who hunted stale apples. In late Summer, they fell from the twisted brown trees in the forest near his ramshackle home. Mother told him not to go there too often; ghosts and boogeys lived in it, she said. But he couldn’t not. It called him to itself. It called with the power of a thousand midgets. The world of Blue shook. Francis walked forward, his face all unafraid, his heart as steady as Hagni’s sputtering dragonfly. He kept it in a cage away from the insectivorous old woman down the hall. He hated that wretch. So, he devised a plot to ris his life of her. But how? He remembered the shovel in the closet and ow it could be used to this endless thumping and drumming without going mad she simply could not understand. She ran for the door, anxious to be free from the chaotic frenzy of the war dance. Food was spare, shoes full of water. It was a time of wet socks and long sighs that re-echoed in the hollow bellies becoming cold. A solemn, single eye turned a curtain and looked down into the court. The belfry shook just a little as the eye blinked and down in the court, the red-haired woman continued to wash her clothes and sing. The song told of a quiet sorrow and the eye at the curtain seemed to replace where the tv set used to be. It was a strange haze, like how people described ghosts, but darker and more inviting. It presented itself like a gate to another world. But, he didn’t want to go in. His Momma told him to wear out the pen. Borrowing from another greater writer, he set out to conclude that which was begun just minutes before. ‘Don’t start something you don’t intend to finish.'”
“Oh, I saw a strange and wondrous thing – upon the hard, dark hill a mountain giant swung his mighty axe against a tree of unknown origin. The tree fell and made a dreadful noise. The old woman in the cottage on the edge of Shady Grove De-lite woke up and shook in bed. “What was that noise?” she muttered. And lo, above her was a magical goose who had swallowed Joe, the half fawn with no pants. Suddenly, she awoke to the looming shadow cutting off the rays of sunlight she’d been enjoying peacefully. “Who are you?” she asked the foreman. “No one that doesn’t see.” The ceiling fan eeked and twisted slowly, sounding like it’d come out of the roof soon. The man in the long tie leaned forward and stroked on of three whiskers that bestowed wisdom. It broke. The cat yawned wide and a set of stairs formed at the back of his throat. Patrick stepped in his mouth and down he went seeking wisdom from the wise old Lady Tooth, whose bones were brittle, her skin was tough, and her heart was stone. Burn down the high places! Make room for the Tooth! But, she wasn’t that wise. Any day now, the scandal would unfold for the world to see her debauchery. Blink twice and put your finger in your ear who knows – it could elevate you in some chimney after delivering presents – unless little Suzy who awakes in the night. Back to debauchery- a word I could never spell in kidney garden. Oh, but to learn it firsthand! Twas a story I’ll never forget. So, each time I see a light of frozen metal, I think to myself, ‘I hope no little children stick their tongues to that!'”