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A little over a year ago we attempted to write a story to which everyone contributes, post by post, but eventually the characters were talking in iambic pentameter and it got confusing. Shall we try again?
The rules, from the previous thread, are:
1. Story segments should be no more than 200 words in order to allow others to develop it. (and no double posting.)
2. No real-life comments, only Story related posts.
3. Each segment must end with a statement that will lead into the next. (ie. "and then he . . .")
4. Try to keep the thread in a straight line so we don't have parallel universes of the Story.
And now 5. Prose only.
Let's begin:
It was the nadir of winter and the world was covered in a warm blanket of pure, icy white. In a misty dell far from any civilization, past miles of dusty roads twisting endlessly over rolling hills of lustrous white, there lived, in a small, ramshackle cabin, an old, miserly Gypsy woman.
One evening, while reading her favorite book by the light of small, flickering fire, she heard the faintest of rappings on the door. Glancing around she placed the book on a side table, lowered her spectacles and rose slowly. Hobbling to the door she . . .
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Hobbling to the door she was about to open it, when she thought "Hang on, hang on! That narrator's got it all wrong. Winter can't have a nadir, can't it? Bollocks to that!"
She turned away from the door in search of tsuwm's online copy of the OED to prove her point to the young whippersnapper who'd had the temerity to (a) begin a story which made her get out of her chair by the fire on a cold night, and (b) abused the language to the point where she couldn't even bring herself to follow the plot, slim though it was.
She failed to notice that the faint rapping she'd heard at the door was only faint because she'd turned Dr Bill's stolen hearing aid off. (Gyppos are notorious for stealing hearing aids in California.) In fact, the door was being splintered by repeated heavy blows of a half-axe (or ax, if you're American, of course, but then, of course, if you're a gypsy you ain't in the US, are you?).
Engrossed in booting up her late-model ENIAC word-processor, bought second-hand from a carboot salesman who'd just happened to have 35 large lorries with him that day, she also failed to notice the door finally give way, fall in pieces on the floor and generally give up the ghost.
She did, however, notice a faint draught. She didn't really feel all that cold, because being a smart old gypsy woman, she'd reinforced the warmth provided by the fireplace by dropping a tab of the finest Ecstasy that Transylvanian Draco Blood and Supermarket food coupons can buy. But the unexpected draught was enough to make her turn around in time to see ...
The idiot also known as Capfka ...
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But the unexpected draught was enough to make her turn around in time to see ...a barrel of cider with a axe floating towards the old model T Ford she was fixing. "NOOOOOOO!", she yelled, leaping at the barrel of cider. She knocked the barrel to the ground. She looked at it, and thought "oh, what else will I do with it." The Gypsy woman took a long drink of water from the barrel of cider. Then she said "Wait. this is supposed to be cider." This occupied her mind long enough so that she wouldn't notice...
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This occupied her mind long enough so that she wouldn't notice...
that the Eniac had finished booting and [due to a bizarre and statistically unlikely conjunction of coincidences, including among other things a sunspot, a chemical explosion at a nearby nuclear plant, a moth fluttering in Brazil, and the missing hundredth monkey deciding he would rather pleasure himself yet again than wash vegetables with the others] had transcended bewildered indifference into Supreme Enlightenment. A fraction of a second earlier, 200 miles away, a hungover lineman came to the belated realization that he should have called in sick, as he stumbled into a charged line and caused what later became known as "the brown-out of aught six." The transcendant Word Processor was about to type a letter to Ann Landers when the power grid surged and failed, turning its brain into melted plastic, and its memories into scattered electrons. The old Gypsy wiped her hand to her shirt, while looking over her shoulder back at the once flickering and now dead light in house, when in the distance she spied ...
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when in the distance she spied ...the same carboot salesman who had sold her the Maniac. Maniacally she ran down the road to meet him, and implored...
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she ran down the road to meet him, and implored, "Pierre! Pierre! Wait!" The saleman, whose name was, in fact, Gringoire, turned, an expression of amazement mixed with dismay on his face. "Esmeralda!" They fell into each other's arms, sobbing and laughing at once.
Later that night, in each other's arms, they heard the bells of the nearby abbey church ringing for Lauds. Over the sound of the bells they heard faintly a voice calling,
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they heard faintly a voice calling, "What a load of old rubbish! You can't have a bunch of geriatrics having it away on prime time telly! No, I don't care if it is your idea of a kind of retro "Big Brother", wrinklies should keep their clothes on on telly. At all times. At all costs." Pause, then "And that goes double for him! No, the pretzel doesn't constitute a suitable fig-leaf substitute."
Esmeralda, her foot still in pain from her little interlude with torturers in "The Hunchback of Notre Dame", staggered to her foot, and shouted,
The idiot also known as Capfka ...
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Esmeralda, her foot still in pain from her little interlude with torturers in "The Hunchback of Notre Dame", staggered to her foot, and shouted a round of drinks for everybody at the bar.
Only then did she wonder how come she'd being making a bit of the passionate and frantic in front of a whole pub full of full people. Putting it down as one of those little experiences you have when you are least expecting it (after all she was well into her eighties and she'd only just met the guy), she tightened her crocheted stole around her and headed into the night.
Esmeralda had only hopped the length of the street when she was astounded to see that...
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Esmeralda, her foot still in pain from her little interlude with torturers in "The Hunchback of Notre Dame", staggered to her foot, and shouted, 'Oi! CapK! No double-posting!!!!'
After counting to ten the pain in Esmeralda's foot ebbed and the swelling subsided. This time was long enough for the glint to return to her paramour's eyes and, on seeing this, she smiled askew, and hopped on her single leg towards the bed. Oblivious to all but her lover's glance she failed to notice the axel grease smudge on the bedroom floor left by her mechanical exploits from the previous night. It was too late! She skidded and pirouetted about the room like a ballerina on rollerskates, jetering neatly across footstools, cushions, boudoirs and hampers. One would award her marks for technical excellence if it were not for the tragic circumstances about to unfold. Looming fast before her was the open door and the cavernous stairwell drop to the cellar floor.
'Esmeralda!!', her lover cried as she lunged into the void and the darkness swallowed her up. He darted out of bed and over to the door just as a crashing sound came up from the unseen below. 'What is to become of me??' he began melodramatically. Rushing to his clothes he pulled a dagger by the hilt from out of its scabbard. With all the pomp of a Shakespearean actor he raised the blade to the light and mumbled a soliloquy and then with closed eyes he thrust the dagger towards his body....
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he thrust the dagger towards his body, but since his eyes were closed he did not see Esmeralda's ghost rising up the stairs. But he did hear her say, "Is that a dagger I see before me, or art thou just glad to see me?" Since he wasn't glad to see her, he used the dagger to punctuate his sentence, laughing in a jugular vein.
Esmeralda's ghost watched her former lover...
TEd
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Esmeralda's ghost watched her former lover, then Esmeralda, picking up her ghost and replacing it in her purse said, "Ya see dear - the old fake ghost trick - it works everytime. I can now see what yer at. It's not me yer after, but me semi-breeves and all thet sorta stuff. Well, let me tall ya this - ya wouldn't know a colon if it hit ya in the bowls. Ya don't know yer aitches from yer helbow.
I'm leaven ya Buster. Of course, it's not you, it's me. I miss the heady old days readen books and stuff back in me little hovel of a run-down cottage yoke."
With that, there was a knock on the door, and the old gypsy woman hobbled over ta answer it...
(Grate work, Bear...Ed)
(Thanks Boss...Ted)
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..and the old gypsy woman hobbled over ta answer it...
"OPEN UP, OLD WOMAN! THIS IS THE AWAD POLICE," was the shout what greeted her as she was about ta place her knobbly hand on the knob.
"Oh dear, calamity!" she shrieked. "What am I supposed ta have done?"
"We'll give it ta ya straight, Missus," came the gruff reply. "Furst ya attempt ta muder the story, then ya try ta cover up yer tracks by posten twice. What's more, there's been a terrable miscarraige of typos and yer not an old gypsy woman but rather an old tipsy woman."
"Have mercy," she sobbed pittifully. "I'm only a poor widda woman. I only drink ta block out the pain of liven. Me sick Auntie is in hospital waiten on a fierce complicated operation. I'm a nice old woman really. I fought in two World Wars. I've fierce trouble with me bunions. I was grate looken in me day. Me liver is gone. Please have mercy on me," she implored. "I'm innocent, I tells ya. Innocent!"
Moved by her distressen sobs, the AWAD Squad broke down.
the door. "And now ye've added goen over the 200 words ta the list of charges."
"It wasn't me! It wasn't me!" she pleaded. "It was me pesky little teddy bear. I rue the day I gave him that red crayon fer his burthday.
"Aw save it fer the Judge, ya drunken oul hussy. Buck her Dano."
Meanwhile...
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Meanwhile...
in a quaint suburb of Rio de Janiero, a small, mop-headed British boy hopped off his bicycle and ran up the grassy hill to his father's luxurious mansion. The boy's name was Alfred and he was eight years old. Early in the morning, every morning, he would sneak out of his father's house and ride his bike to the golden beaches of the South Atlantic where he would skip stones just as the sun was rising over the endless waters before him. He had visited this shore many times in his life, and he had acquired, through this quiet time of peaceful rumination, a wisdom far beyond his years.
It was from this activity that he was speeding home in the meanwhile. (He was running up the grassy hill.) He reached the house, pulled open the large mahogany door and . . .
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He reached the house, pulled open the large mahogany door and ...
His father, Ronnie Biggs, swooped on him and picked him up, at the same time slamming the door in the face of the 22-year-old beautiful monokini-clad Brazilian girl who was standing there, panting from the run. Ronnie carried his son through the house to the bathroom and dumped him, still wearing his shorts, in the shower cubicle.
"Wash yourself you little devil!" he snarled. "How many times have I told you that the Copacobana is no place for an eight-year-old by himself? You never know what you might catch. It's dirty and you're covered in filth. Talking of which, how many times have I told you not to pick girls up there?"
"Lots," his son muttered. Then he added "But Dad, I want you to look up to me. I wanted to show you that even at eight years old I'm as good a man as you are!"
"Damn it!" lamented Ronnie. "I knew it would come to this." He went and found the phone book. "I'm going to ring Scotland Yard and see if I can cut a deal with them if I go back to England."
Just then, there was a furious pounding at the door, and ...
The idiot also known as Capfka ...
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Just then there was a furious pounding at the door, and, screeching "Coming!" the boy ran and flung it open.
In the doorway stood a young man with a swarthy complexion and tousled black hair, dressed all in black skintight leather under which muscles and sinews rippled. Two gold ear rings, together with his coloring and hair, and the prominent bulge in his leather jeans, suggested a Gypsy origin. The boy and Ronnie watched with amazement, the girl with delight, as he unzipped, pulled out his equipment and promptly made it into a representation of Sugerloaf Mountain.
With a smile, he said, "Good morning. My name is
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With a smile, he said, "Good morning. My name is Raoul and I am looking for Consuelo, Jackie, and Belmarduk. I found their names scrawled in the gutter along with this address. Please tell me, am I too late? Have they already run off with Maverick and Bingley?" as he folds his privates into a stunningly accurate representation of...
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he folds his privates into a stunningly accurate representation of...
an accordion. "To Hoyle with this," he muttered, "I seem to have the marks of queens buried in there somewhere. Happened at the last boxing holiday, I should imagine." Suddenly Consuelo burst through the door, "My goodness, that's a big one! Rulers? Rulers? We don't need no steenking rulers."
At that momemnt Jackie, sporting a brassard with the words Gutter Police, sauntered into the room and ...
TEd
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sauntered into the room and ...
shouted, "Here I am, my darling Rauol, my mountin' sugarloaf! I've left that nasty Edward in Tierra del Fuego with his @#$@#%$@ partridges and pear trees! Take me back to Merrie Olde England, where I can re-unite with Mav and Kiwi, and we'll ...
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Merrie Olde England, where I can re-unite with Mav and Kiwi, and we'll ...get the whole group over there for a heluvapalooza, which I'm going to slip away from for a few moments to plot how to kill you for embarrassing me this way. We must have the old gypsy woman there, too, and she'll...
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and she'll .... conjure up a potion that will let you let you play the puppetter all the day long.. with no fear of your puppet getting to stiff to manipulate..
it is a very powerful potion.. in the wrong hands, it could make all men into meer puppets, ending the world as we now know it.
for safe keeping, we must make sure is it carefully lock away, and not let it be accidental ingested by...
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or safe keeping, we must make sure is it carefully locked away, and not let it be accidentally
ingested by...
Bill Clinton, or any other grand purveyor of male hormonal angst who is in a position of power, lest they unleash their frustrations upon an unsuspecting world in other ways. Such were the plotting thoughts the vengeful old Gypsy woman amused herself with as she sat rotting in her holding cell, unable to make bail. She knew of the potient's power, it's secreted existence, it's potential for wreaking havoc in the male-dominated power structure of the world if it fell into the right hands, the proper hands, her hands!...She had to have it! If only she hadn't let that little squirrel of kid in Rio get away, what was his name again? No matter...she knew the strip joint where he hung out in more ways than one. Suddenly she knew! She could promise to make him Puppet Master if he would lead her to the treasure! She was going back to Rio! Now!
"Guard!" she cried. "Oh, Guard! I have something delicious for you! Come closer! Come here..."
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