These are stories that my friends and I write on occasion. Most stories involve three people or more, passing a book around, each person writing three words and passing it along. The only rules are: you have to write as quickly as you can, and what you put down has to make grammatical sense with what has gone before. Punctuation can be added whenever the need seems to arise, by anyone who has the book at the time.
That said, here are a few examples of our literary aspirations:
Synergistic Stories, tribe.net, 10 - 20 words
The doorbell rang at about 8am this morning. When I opened the door I was surprised to find a strange black briefcase. Being a bit afraid, I decided to bring it in for closer inspection.
There was sound coming from inside it...something alive? Cringing as I popped the snaps open, I carefully opened it to find an intricate clockwork device. I couldn't determine its purpose at first glance and decided to examine my mail first, as I was expecting a very large cheque from the CIA in recompense for the LSD experiments I had participated in the 1950s.
The unusual device suddenly began to hum with such resonance, I dropped the envelopes and looked back over my shoulder, stunned to find the object crawling around at my feet like a small animal. It seemed to unfold into some kind of rampantly sexual winged lust-goddess only 4 inches high. I remembered the check I was expecting, and momentarily suspected I was having an acid flashback. But flashbacks don't crawl to you and start humping your leg.
And I recalled what Wentworth told me during that rambling, crazy telephone conversation. Could it be that he wasn't so nuts after all? In the conversation, he had alluded to an elaborate conspiracy involving multi-colored iguanas, who somehow had gained intelligence and were planning a takeover of roadside barbeque chicken joints across the great plains of the US and Canada. I raised my eyebrow in alarm. Clearly, this miniature mechanical whore was sent by the iguanas to fuck my brains out and see what I knew about their nefarious plans.
Suddenly, it dawned on me that those scheming little lizards had made the connection between me and barbecued chicken. I knew I had to contact Wentworth to find out how much they know. I thought it impossible, but it's clear now. Someone talked, and by the sounds of it, talked loud enough to make it through all the contacts in the chain ... until THEY snuffed us out, the iguanas wouldn't stop. But I must know who they're working with, if they have teamed up with the Underground Trans Fat Alliance it could spell the end of Western Civilization as we know it.
I ran for the backdoor, but the lust goddess was too quick for me. I reached for the phone, but to my surprise it had vanished! In its place was a large basket of rotting fruit. On instinct I grabbed a pomegranate and quickly peeled back the weathered skin. I swallowed four seeds and began to chant, "Om bbq, om bbq, om bbq." A sudden vision appeared, an incantation had never worked this quickly before. I took one last glance at the world I thought I knew before being swallowed up by a swirling vortex of xxx hot sauce.
I was transformed into flame and transported in an instant to the center of the sun, where I was greeted by the entire cast of "Leave It to Beaver" wearing demon costumes. By now, I knew this was not a good sign. Ever since my illicit affair with June, I have been avoiding Ward like the plague, unable to look him in the eyes that now had a distinct reddish glow. He said, "Wentworth told us to expect you," and held out his hand. As his fingers began to grasp mine, the pupil of his left eye imploded, taking the rest of Ward with it to some other dimension. June shrieked with horror and began to claw at her own face and droplets of blood appeared on her apron.
I felt around in my pocket for the pomegranate seeds. I popped one into my mouth and sought out Wentworth's astral projection. It was time to see whose side he was really on.
In a flash I was back at home on my doorstep, holding my mail, and looking at a strange black briefcase at my feet. I rolled my eyes at the loop I seemed to be caught in, and was not a bit surprised that the lust goddess was humping my leg again, and was working her way up.
The phone was a phone again, and it rang shrilly as I made my way towards it, trying to shake the lust goddess off. I answered on the third ring, as was my custom. I was pleasantly surprised to find that it was Wentworth on the other end asking me if I had received my check from the CIA yet.
"Yes, I did," I replied. "The bonus, while not unwelcome, does raise some concerns about just...aw screw this. Wentworth! What have you done? I thought the chicken deal was a lock. Have you been sleeping with lizards?"
Wentworth laughed, then replied, "Colonel you are just bitter that I have finally outfoxed your infamous fried chicken genius! Behold my formidable BBQ chicken Kung Fu powers! Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!"
"How quickly you forget," I sighed. "You do not hold the power Wentworth. What if I was to make a sauce that would leave you drooling and a slave to my every whim?"
Wentworth just laughed again, pulled his fake fried chicken king routine, and threatened to have me deep-fried in batter if I didn't surrender the command codes giving him access to the huge underground complex where the Spicy Hoisin Sauce-o-Tron ray was being readied.
"You fool," I replied, contemptuously. "I made you! How soon you forget that it was me on acid that opened the door to the alien blueprints for the Sauce-o-Tron ray." Suddenly the connection became clear. Overhearing Mrs. Butterworth whisper to Wentworth, I knew Freemasons were almost in control of the aliens' control grid! Obviously this plot went far, far deeper than the iguanas. I was out of my depth.
Under the table, Sparky was eagerly anticipating yet another tasty meat scrap. Unfortunately, little did he realize that beneath the tasty surface of his lumps of lard, there lurked a chewy inner core of despair. As he chewed, tears gushed fountain-like and streamed down into his hiccuping navel. Tiny geysers jumped and danced from his crater rhythmically.
His pal Buster had long ago come to terms with the bittersweet joy of lard lumps, and sought to comfort his friend with new oral sex techniques. As his tongue waggled teasingly against sparky's curled tail, fires of lust extinguished his sadness, and a huge ball of orange SweeTarts(tm) rose from the table, hovering like small gnats. Suddenly, they gathered into a tight column of citrus-y mas destruction! Sparky was unprepared for the incredible violence of the intrusion.
He grabbed Buster and begged him, "Please, Buster! You have to control my carnal desires! Now that sadness has fled from me, the telepathic power of my ancestors is taking over my hormones!"
"Chill," whispered Buster. "I know how to calm your rigid emanations. Just relax, the pounding will commence shortly."
If Sparky thought he was aroused before, it couldn't compare to the skyrocketing paroxysms which began charging up his spine as the SweeTarts(tm) broke apart under Buster's oral assault. Chunks of pucker-inducing candy flew hither and thither with each chunk's sharp edges slashing through furniture and accessories.
Buster looked up, resting his traumatized tongue. "Your ancestors will never again be responsible for turning delicious candy into an instrument of death and destruction."
Sparky shuddered, aftershocks still rippling up his various concavities. He eyed the remains of the lard lumps with disdain. "Oh thank you Powdered Toast Man!"
Buster sighed. Sparky's visual systems were obviously still controlled by the candy. He unlimbered his next fabulous technique: The Anteater's Tongue.
Sparky cried "No! Spiders! Crawling in my brayyyn! Arrrgh!" Buster ignored Sparky's obvious ploy, for he knew hallucinations were only the result of fragments of of the memories Sparky's ancestors charged him up with. Probing deeply, the tongue of Buster Hoovered tart shreds from between Sparky's legs. Finally, there emanated a small slu-u-u-rp and Busters tongue crept cheekily into places hitherto unknown to man.
"Yippee!" cried Sparky. "I want to enact a proper finish to this psychotic episode!" He pushed Buster out from underneath the table and ran outside. "Forefathers, I curse thee and thy ravishing memory!" Then he went to Disneyland.
There he is, standing like a Greek god, peering through the window at the little naked old man. "Won't be long 'till i'm done yanking on your wife!" he cackled, grasping her ankles and throwing them back behind his muscular head.
The woman, panting, prodeeded to undulate wildly while emitting an irritating, high-pitched hum. Her circuits were malfunctioning.
"Damn, it smells like a short-circuit!" cursed the former presidential cybernetics advisor. "The processor must have gotten overloaded." He dropped her down the chute back behind his callous behind.
"No! Not again! Bastard!" cried the interloper. "You slimy, rotten wife-short-circuiter!" cried the old man, discovering pleasure in his bowels as they abruptly erupted all over the new wife. "You shit-eating old man!" shouted she, while outside, a teenage gang of Irish Catholics mooned passers-by.
"How many times do I have to slap this fish against my rosy ass before you arrest me?"
Suddenly, just when the Greek god was reaching into his dark, warm crevice, the little old man stroked his new wife's rosy cheek, weeping tears of extreme, tender desire, and the interloper ached to join in but was reluctant.
Steam began to billow, and a whistling erupted from his anus. Both men screamed like girls. The familliar odour of yesterday's lunch wafted into the room, and the interloper got over his aversion to predigested carbohydrate and grabbed a donut, stuffing it into his receptacle.
"Okay, we're done for today," sang the intercom. Darkness fell on all.
Martin was late for an important date with fate. The armoured car driver impatiently sucked his thumbs, among other protrusions, warts, boils ... and diverse other sucking related accessories. Marty eyed him warily, cleared his desk, and began cross-examination proceedings.
"Where were you on the night of January 23rd, 1993? No use in lying; we will not rest until you confess to spiking my cola with mint jujubes!"
The driver knew all about the delerium inducing properties of jujubes, but he wouldn't admit culpability under these circumstances. He spat profusely (and colourfully), "You Polish mango-eater! You goat-frotting spawn of Beelzebub! Muhahahaaa!" and abruptly fell unconscious, unaware until that moment, the thumbs he'd been slurping on were not his!
Marty leapt over his desk, gasping and snorting. He vowed he'd never drink Liquid Downy for breakfast again!
So he left, the memory haunting him still. Dark recolletions of hedonistic glories roamed his thoughts. He'd been at a community centre "rave" scoping the babes. Suddenly, he shuddered uncontrollably. The room slowly began to gyrate hypnotically and then dwindled into pulsing lights. Huge incandescent butterflies pirouetted enchantingly, arousing his inner insect. Like some grand, wild stag beetle his pincers grabbed onto someone.
"Eeek!" she yelped friskily.
"Whoa!" said Marty, "I feel peculiar."
"Isn't it GREAT?" giggled the she-insect. I just love this jujube batch." Smiling, she thrust her antennae down under his carapace.
He awoke many eons later. Vague remnants of clothing were dangling from the ceiling. Clutching his complaining bowels he teetered into the ... hang on ... where was he!?
Furtively tiptoe-ing across the slippery hardwood deck, Marty realized he was shirtless and Vaselined. Worse, teenage nymphettes adorned the deck, softly murmuring admiring approval. His member sprang reluctantly, despite the enormous temptation. He was spent, though. Totally drained. He promised himself never to ingest free candy again.
Remembering the incident, Marty winced noticeably as he raced headlong into his next amazing adventure. Ahead, a dimly pulsing light was beckoning him forth. Underneath it stood a stunning visage-covered small alien, resembling his uncle. But only slightly. Unleashing his semi-automatic passion, Marty screeched in incoherent rage. The alien recoiled with bemused hoots of derision.
Suddenly, a mighty stash of illicit substances emerged from the wall behind Marty. He flinched girlishly. "Eeek!" he squealed. "I shouldn't have started down this slippery, debauched path ... BUT IT'S FUN!!!"
So, the alien stuffed Marty with barbituates and benzedrine and lasd and unidentifiable insect byproducts and Cherry Jolt. With great aplomp, Marty donned his dancing tights. Giggling like a demented Tanzanian featherweight boxer, he rose majestically into the raucous morning. Shards of polyurethane patio furniture suddenly exploded soundlessly in his left peripheral vision.
Turning slowly upside down, Marty's mind struggled to remember where the heck he left his favourite comb. His hair was completely nukept and hung annoyingly above his nose, effectively blinding him. "Not again!" he ejaculated, flailing his arms hysterically about as if fending off small fighter planes.
The alien smirked. "Typical human behaviour" it wrote on its dayplanner with a peculiarly flamboyant flair.
"What amazing handwriting!" thought Marty lustfully. Perhaps there was a time, he too had felt the lure of jujubes. Firm, sculpted jujubes offered by strange herds of aliens whistling his name filled his imagination. He must stop!
Abruptly, Marty darted from the wall where he'd been grooming himself. Suspecting further motives behind this surprisingly robust drug-stuffed torment, Marty issued an ululating yodel and promptly donned lederhosen over the tights. This called for some serious polka! Good thing accordians were grwing from trees these days, for long ago, prophets had to harvest the rare beasts with ivory sickles imported from Paraguay. In secret rituals, Marty had learned the art of private investigation, which is irrelevant. However, with polka-ing intoxicated prophets teaching him, he'd acquired quite a skill at strutting his funky stuff with deadly accuracy and imagination.
His heel crushed like velvet through the alien's smug beery-eyed stare. It snarled menacingly and whispered invitingly, "Naughty human! I could have shown you erotic delights beyond human comprehension! But now, you really messed up! So I shall banish you unto my slave dungeon where numerous nymphettes will oil you, remove your garments, lick you clean, comb your hair until it shimmers lushly, before draining your willpower by emptyiing your wallet and eating the moss-like substance growing within."
Far and away the fairest city on the vast plains of the Rockies.
Morning brings the unmistakeable tell-tale aroma of freshly minced water
buffalo chips, steaming hot and fragrant in their splendor.
friend, whose hut is festooned with carvings of voluptuous wooden
hermaphrodites, guided me to her favorite watering hole where the ale is
spicy and the talk is cheap. We planned tomorrow's expedition to sacred
Aspen, a desolate wasteland long venerated for the rare pelt of the
there were sufficient supplies obtained for barter, ancient custom
dictated we purify ourselves by removing our clothing and rolling naked in
molten honey and fire ants. With some trepidation, we prepared ourselves
for the trek.
porter, Chet, an eyeless native with hives, was eager to show us how
strong his massive ears were by hoisting a nearby oxen over six feet in
the air. We were impressed. Confident our team were ready for the perils
at every turn. Machete-ing our way onto First Avenue, Chet scouted ahead
for potholes. "AAAAAIGH!" he yelped, plummeting to his death.
a replacement, now that we were in the more rural areas, was
accomplished swiftly. We drugged a sullen vagrant from Idaho, who,
surprisingly, spoke reasonable Spanish. "Puta!" he snarled at the oxen,
who merely lowed.
road ahead was riddled with treacherous, venomous mushrooms that
leaped and crept stealthily around our ankles. Rechecking our
transquilizer supply, we set out. Marmot country was dead ahead.
instincts told me there were several tribes of nomadic Marmotixtin
Indians lurking beneath the porter's enormous toreador pants. Approaching
cautiously, my friend probed the pants, startling flocks of small
Marmotixtin children. Egads!"
there lived a toucan named Fabian. He would jump up hysterically whenever he
saw a bright green spandex bikini being lassoed around the delectable morsel
named Cha-cha. She would come down to see the amazing dancing cereal bowls which
covered the whole floor of The Cage, a nasty hangout for horny toucans and delectable
One night after the Spleen Flenser's Ball, they ducked into a seedy cafe with some cheap whores who frequently bit the big roots of the dyed blond wench. Fabian exclaimed, "My Cha-cha with her taut bikini is more voluptuous and tasty than all the whores in Cucamunga!"
Enraged, the blond wenches formed a pyramid and oozed forth, brandishing enormous rutabagas and foot-long cucumbers! They smacked Cha-cha HARD up the wazoo, causing her to yelp wildly like a rabid antelope with a hormone difficulty. The cucumbers secreted a wonderfully soothing lubricant that covered the vast expanses of blond whores. Fabian cried "Oh, my poor aching, pulsating, huge, throbbing, red, rutabagas! How will I ever manage to stroke the soft crevices of your warm moistness?"
Grasping the bikini, he panted breathlessly, " My darling Cha-cha, you know I love you like I love my Neon Foot-Loops. How I long to pour milk all over your heaving bosoms." Tenderly, he traced the swelling curves of her inner thighs with his beak.
She whispered, "Oh, Fabian, only you could nibble at my secret pockets of Froot Loops."
2 of a story .. part 1 was awful.)
Meanwhile, in a sly little dinghy, two lovers drifted merrily towards their doom. Huge monsters were erupting, like porridge bubbling, from surrounding snake grass. She grabbed her pink noodle and smacked it squarely in the vulnerable groin of her lover. "Hey! why don't you do something about those monsters?" cried the young princess.
Her lover sprang from the damp neoprene and said, in a crackling voice, "I forgot what a bitch you can be when in mortal fear of death!"
The impending monsters watched this with amusement. "Silly humans! Why are they fighting so? When we are waiting to feast on their tender bones."
"I want the liver!" slobbered one goonishly hairy three-eyed scaly smelly monster.
"Save me the sweetmeats!" grunted another.
Just then, the lovers rowed away. The monsters denied it, and ate the smaller monsters instead. The lovers, narrowly escaping devourment, rowed madly towards a raging waterfall. Jagged black rocks tugged at the dinghy. "FUCK!" yelled the boy, "I just got it waxed!!"
(1st of 3 chapters)
While people gazed adamantly into deep pools of water, other people considered that if it began to rain, things might become fruitful. Rupert stood there thinking "This is going to require peanut shells to fuel the fires of pepper spray coming." Swinging from his jungle gym, he desired to fuel his desire for delectable women and hard-ass breaks; but the thought of the whole room resonating to da phat, mad blunted chunky beats was just too much for his quivering brain.
The people began to gyrate madly to the various vibes pulsating through Rupert's pectorals, yet a sense of peculiar discomfort spread among them. You'd think the appearance of 17 naked sea-monkeys might have caused Rupert to beware! But no! With chagrin he shed his big sweater and table-danced until his pores opened and exuded a plethora of unexpected tasty psychedelic treats. Wow!
The people were wooed, but the panther children refused to participate. "Hi-ho!" they cried.
Rupert's pectoral strainings abruptly ceased. "How am I going to rally troops without you, panther children?"
Finally, with a melancholy sigh, Rupert agreed to submit reluctantly to the whims of the purring hordes. House music, it is said, can soothe even the most savage of the panther ones. So Rupert hired Tyler, Little T, Andrew Weatherall and MC Jean Chretien to HQ Communications Jungle Peppy Panther Party.
"Hooray!" they cried. "Let house reign over all of Pantherworld!"
Meanwhile, the headz waited restlessly for the entrance to unclog. Rumours spread like wildfire, and the pagans began burning the flyers they knew to be cursed by the evil hoochie-mammas of the Granville Mall.
Suddenly, the people were no longer afraid of the Big Bad Rupert. "He's big, he's bold, he's brilliant, he's Ru-PERRRRT!" sang the lot of them. They began salaaming frantically. Rupert stormed to some of the hyper beatz and then, suddenly, gave birth ...
TO BE CONTINUED
Rupert stood aghast. Directly below his quivering torso lay a freshly minted, brand spanking new, fully automatic pet bald mini-Rupert! Rupert scooped up the babe, cooing sullenly at it. Mini-Rupert bit down hard on Rupert's finger. "Listen, here's the deal, I control the chequebook and you're the pretty houseboy, ya hear?"
"Hey, wait a minute, I'm your father!" retorted Rupert. Mini-rupert spat derisively. Rupert spanked him. Social workers descended on threads from the heavens, yelping "Abuse!"
Rupert dropped Mini-Rupert hastily, smiled, and offered them Mini-Rupert's crack stash. They fell upon Rupert, purring and rubbing up against his apish calves, and grunting "Ungh! Crack! Snort!"
He rose feeling large, even though in reality he remained as slim as an impotent California cabana boy after meeting Liberace. Not Liberace the snuggly carebear had hoped for but JAMES BROWN!! Rupert was astonished by his reaction, but with pelvic intent he opened his thighs which in turn brought squeals of delight from the crowds of gyrating, bouncing carebears.
Embarrassed, he sent for the Smurfs which begrudgingly agreed to illuminate Orgasmic Crystals hidden in the recesses of his huge trousers. A hush fell upon them, yet the bouncing nipples which he lovingly dispersed among the seething, rapturous masses concerned him. Liberace whipped the seething bulbous gynormic chasm, while Mini-Rupert shouted "Deeper, you fiends!"
Rupert's udder trembled under the orgasmic pressure that erupted over the candied shells that covered his plunger. "Come fly in my magic mushroom chair," he sang, dancing a jig to the canine howls.
The air was thick with smoke rising from the agitated lips of Marty's nubile slave harem. Languidly, he stroked the most voluptuous part of his physique - the temporal lobe, eliciting harsh cries of "Auwe!" from the oiled vixens nearby. Telepathically, Marty controlled their genital temperature. Writhing increased exponentially as his mental state approached a crescendo of erupting into orgasmic pleasure.
Yawning, Marty said "Pleasure seems dreary these days. More sensory input is required to sustain my pleasure plateau." He arose from the perfumed cushions, unsatisfied with the renewed howls of squealing, lustful delight, and picked up his cellphone. "Damn you, Rupert! I've had enough of this sexual ecstasy!" he raged.
Rupert sighed dramatically. "Poor, poor Marty," he thought sadly, then hung up. He turned to Mini-Rupert, who was chewing the turntables. "Stop that! Harlequin!" he snapped.
Marty continued speaking, oblivious to dead air. "Rupert! For the love of God! Stop inebriating me!" When he realized how silent Rupert was, he convulsed spasmodically.
BUBBLES (an attempt at a romance novel) (it went downhill fast)
Long ago there were warm, plentiful fields of grass, swaying harmoniously with luscious whisperings. Often, whilst undulating magically, the princess Zyim swept back her linen bedcovers and sighed longingly, remembering those torrid afternoons in Bengal with Prince Panopteras III. "How I loved his azure eyes, his raven hair and his enormous manhood!" she thought to herself.
Her maidservant Ahayo crept silently in from the outer fortress to unchain the monkey. Glancing surreptitiously about her, she ate the last grape and stroked herself complacently. "Mistress, I have a favour to ask," she whined.
Zyim rolled over and farted. "Speak," she snapped, cracking her knuckles irritably.
Ayaho kneeled before her mistress's pert bosom. "I have watched you sigh over Panopteras and his horse Vlad."
Zyim sighed. "Yes, I have seen visions of his great and probing and ambitious tongue seeking yours lasciviously." She arose from her mound of rare Celidon chrysanthemums scattered over the bedclothes and stepped into her diaphanous gown.
Ahayo purred, "Surely, the three of us can come to an agreement over who gets to mount and ride Vlad tomorrow."
Displaying her strength of will and sculptured thighs, Zyim placed her hands upon the crystal nestled in her pert bosom. "Of course, but first, the ritual. Priests!"
Out of nowhere sprang 17 naked priests carrying incense and liquid gold. "Strip!" they commanded Ahayo. She shed her tiny beaded loincloth. Her limbs glistening with nervous perspiration, Ahayo lay prostrate upon the bed. Unfortunately the monkey, who had been eyeing the wet, tempting, succulent womanflesh lying on the bed, became so turned on he pounced upon Ayaho and tried valiantly to do her. Vlad momentarily forgotten, Ahayo writhed spasmatically under the monkey. He was thrown into the liquid gold.
"By god! We shall have to torture her!" cried the priests, advancing with malice. Faces set in grimaces of disapproval and gas, the donned their horsehair robes and sweaty lederhosen and advanced!
Ahayo whimpered, "Be gentle with my left leg, for it was almost severed several years ago by Zyim.
Looking down, Zyim cackled, "Whore! I should have whipper-snipped your neck instead, you wanton slut!"