Alright, i saw a few threads in the poetry forum where you build up a poem one line or word at a time, why not try it with a story, one paragraph at a time. Everyone add a paragraph and what they think should be the title of the story at the end of their post. A van was driving down a highway in the midwest, and its raining heavily in the middle of the day. There are 4 people in the van. The driver is a women in loose clothing, and she is smoking two cigarettes. She has one foot on the gas pedal and the other on the dash-board and she appears to be humming AC/DC songs. She throws a beer can at the ass-hole in the back. right now i think the title should be "Ohio"
"Next time make it a full one, you ugly 'tard!" Grumwinkle grinned. He peered out the stained windows and let the can roll onto the floor. He glanced over at Packer who was idly flicking his cigarette between his shoes. "Looks like a pisser of a day, Mac, but all the better for Romeo, huh?" "Don't mention that bitch 'round me!" retorted Denise struggling to open another beer and burping a cigarette onto her open blouse. "Shit, that hurts!" Grumwinkle smiled,"Well, it ain't nothing like your boy's going to feel when I'm done with him." Denise glanced into the rearview mirror. She didn't like what she saw. Saturday Ain't Just for Fighting
No one's interested in continuing the story. Too bad. I'll do it anyway. The pasty-faced man in the front seemed like his eyes were walking on his head. "You know we don't have to go through with this. We can turn 'round right now." His mouth squeaked the words out and Denise nodded looking at him. She was ten years past being beautiful and her eyes looked like oiled marbles glued to her head. She turned down the radio and slipped her leg off the dash. "He's right. I think I've made a mistake." She waited and it wasn't long. "I haven't," the voice at the back said. Grumwinkle grinned. "You cut the deck, ya play the game," he added slicing the words. "I'm still playing." Packer smiled. " And feed this buggy more gas. I've got another appointment." He looked over at Grumwinkle and then away again. And suddenly Denise knew who was the more dangerous. And she didn't dare shift the mirror to see his face.
Well, I'll add another one! It was raining harder now and Denise peered into the darkening road ahead. He'd be coming home now, she thought, he'd be feeding his cats or puttering in the shed. And he probably wasn't thinking about her at all. And that was what had bothered her. She was a throw-away. Something you put out with the trash. A voice slapped her to attention. "Stop and get the hell out of the driver's seat. I don't have all friggin' day!" Packer slammed his fist down on the open arm rest and the car skidded to a stop. In a single movement he was out and Denise stumbled out the driver's door. "Look, I want to call it off. It was just a stupid idea, that's all." Packer glowered at her. "A deal's a deal. Shut your mouth and get the f*ck in!" He kicked the door after her for good measure. Grumwinkle was grinning. "Hey, I guess you're a big girl now." The passenger in the front was sniffling and the words barely dribbled out of his mouth. "I have a gun..."
As usual, I have to do everything. Here's the next one: Packer looked momentarily at the man. "Good, I might need an extra. Keep it ready for me, would you." The man's expression wrinkled and he coughed out the words. "You don't understand, I have a gun, stop this car...now!" Packer hit the brakes and the the vehicle swayed and then broke to a halt. "You're getting out," Packer said. "I need more room." The man wheezed and looked at Packer furtively and then spoke to the floor. "No, you're getting out. This is over!" The words were barley audible and might more credibly have squeaked from a mouse. Packer reached into his pocket, withdrew a revolver and banged it against the man's head. "You don't listen too well. Get out. And if you breathe even a whisper of this to anyone I'll make you a sieve." Projecting his foot hard to the right, he kicked the man powerfully against the passenger door. The pale man groaned, lifted the handle and fell out. I'm going with him, you bastard!" Denise said the last word directly into Packer's face. Then it all went blank.
(These things never work. But fair play for trying. Stick to shorter sections until the rhythm gets going again) Heat throbbed in his head and static thrummed against the inside of his skull as he swam up from unconsciousness. Reaching up to touch the source of the pain, spots of dull red on the ends of his fingers made him recoil in horror.
"This is so fucked up", he could hear her screams. They were echoing inside his head like an overturned trash can rolling down a windswept alley. "You damn fuck!" She was hysterical. "You total fucking asshole! What have you done? What have you done?" Her voice was draining, her tension was overcome by a sad serenity. It was the voice of defeat. Grumwinkle felt like he had counted to a hundred in a game of hide and seek and his sight gradually returned. He was more than curious to see what the bitch was yelling about. He hated himself. Hadn't she stuck up for him? No, she was just looking after her own interest, just like every other asshole on this piece of shit they call a planet. Fuck her! Let's see what's bugging the bitch...The stink in the air overturned his stomach. It was burned rubber, or something, but all Grumwinkle could see was red. He wiped the blood from his eyes and tried to focus. The glare of the sun was making it difficult, but his eyes were adjusting. The girl was on the ground, sobbing. She was motionless. Only the tears moved, as they rolled down her face. Where the hell was the van? All he could see was some heavy tire marks on the road. Why had they stopped on the wrong side? And if that asshole Packer had just left them there and driven off, then why was this stupid woman crying? He never noticed it before, but his head moved in the direction as soon as the noise of the smouldering flames registered in his confused and underused brain. He stood still. For the first time in his life, his emotions were caught off guard. There was the van alright, or what was left of it, a few yards further down. It was knocked like a billiard ball onto a field and was quietly roasting away everything that was inside it at the moment of the impact. The impact! The source of her sorrow and his confusion was painted in front of him like a medieval canvas of hell. A truck carrying steel sheets, presumably the vehicle that crushed into the van, had skidded onto the other side of the road and half of a schoolbus that was coming the other way was open, like a used sardine can. The sheets had come undone in the crash and had sliced through the schoolbus like butter. He could hear some small voiced groans and he stepped closer by instinct. There must be survivors. He had to help. He wasn't a hero, but this was too much, he wasn't...what's that on the floor? As he reached the schoolbus, his feet went on strike and his mind on overload. Staring at him, upside down, was the severed head of a child. He couldn't determine whether it was male, or female. He emptied the contents of his stomach on the spot. In the distance he could hear another sound. That of the approaching sirens.
Chapter 2 (If I may, my good friend kidder) There was a recess at noon. Justice June Kempler couldn't wait to leave the stuffy courtroom and she was already untying her robe. Was that a contemptious look from the counsil for the defense? Hmm, she would rise above that, but the young attorney was already treading on thin ice. She didn't get to her position by being privy to emotional whims, but she also had a low tolerance for fools and young Jimmy Johnson had been testing hers all morning with his jackass objections. A little fine for contempt would be his dish for the day if he continued down that tedious road. Road. She stopped for a second and tried to erase her last thought. She worked hard all her life to get where she was and coming from a poor background made it ten times harder. At first, anyway. She was gifted and could have taken her choice for corporate law, but in her heart she knew that the real scales of justice mattered only in one field, that of crime. She unlocked the door to her office and rushed to her personal lavatory. She thought she was going to be sick, but nothing came out. A small look in the bathroom mirror. Those looks in the mirror became shorter as the years flew by. What was once a friend had now turned into a traitor. What was she thinking? She was only 43. The only thing making her look older was the austerity that went along with her profession. Had she sacrificed her womanhood to become a judge? She washed her hands by instinct when there were three loud knocks on the door. She didn't reply. She dried her hands first and conformed herself before saying in a calm voice: "Come in." It was Jeremiah Clarke, her childhood friend. Always on call to cheer her up when she needed it. He strolled into the office as though he had been living there all his life, said a casual 'hi', without looking up, put a box sealed with a violet ribbon on the judge's desk and dropped himself into the visitor's armchair. "What's in the box, Clarky?" she asked. "Why don't you open it and see?" She smiled. What was he up to now? She picked up the silver letter-opening dagger from its hold and cut the ribbon. Her eyes increased a notch, or two at the contents of the box. It was filled with pastries. "You'll get me fat!" "You're a judge. You can be whatever you like. If someone doesn't like it you can throw them in jail." "I'll throw you in jail, if you don't get your sneakers off my desk." "Come now, June, it's your birthday. Cheer up for god's sake." "Don't you mention His name in vein." she looked at him serious. He was about to apologize when she laughed and opened her arms. He got up and gave her a big hug. "You had me going there, June. I almost thought I upset you." "It'll take a lot more to upset me, Jeremiah Clarke, but don't you start using the Lord's name out of context. At least not when there's other people around. Now, which one shall we eat first?" For the second time that day she found herself frozen. Her eyes rested on the photo of a cheerful, young black boy that she kept on her desk. There was a resemblance to her, especially on those rare occasions that she also smiled. Jeremiah saw where she was staring and immediately understood. He embraced her again, but this time with consolation. She didn't cry, but he could feel her trembling. "He should have been here with us, Clarky." "I know, June. I've never forgotten him, either." She picked up the picture and held it to her bossom. It was a long time ago, but she could never make any sense of it. Where was justice when they needed her? Where was God? No. She musn't think like that. Jeremiah prised the photo from her and replaced it on the desk. She resisted at first, but then saw the futility. She could only be like that with Jeremiah. They shared something in common. It was thirty three years ago when on that fateful day they were the only two survivors of the tragic accident that claimed the lives of her twin brother and the rest of their fellow students on the schoolbus.
I don't mind Tigerbeam, as long as you put all the contributors's names on the front cover and pay us all an appropriate percentage of the royalties
Gosh, white scorpion has certainly taken the story on a new trajectory and an interesting one. We know what happened to Packer but I wonder about Grumwinkle. I wonder if the accident really changed him or if he merely stepped out of the picture for awhile. Hmmm...
Thanks kidder. I like your thinking. We now have a good range of possibilities for plot development, but I am concerned, in my big headed way, that if our story gets too good, some twat from Hollywood would rip us off. In order to counterstrike these would-be-vultures, I suggest that we all add 'copyright2004' at the top of each contribution so that if anyone gets funny, we'll sue their ass to the cleaners. Anyway, I'll be going to Athens for a few days, so if you don't hear anything from me, don't think I'm grumpy. And if you don't hear from me for more than 5 days, call the cops. And check out my Arafat poem in Poetry/Whispers of War.
