This is a very easy game to play. Everyone is invited to contribute one or two sentences at a time to a growing story. You can add more as often as you wish, just as long as at least one other person has contributed between your visits.
I'm going to write the beginning of a story. Then you can add to it in whatever style you like, with any plot ideas you like. Don't worry about whether or not it makes sense. A story by committee wouldn't make sense anyway, so we might was well give ourselves permission to go weird.
Okay, here's the beginning:
Miriam said, "I want to be a black-haired fairy. With wings."
Posted by eshtine at June 2, 2002 01:25 PM"That's silly," her mom replied. "Why would you want to dye your beautiful golden hair black?"
Posted by: John at June 2, 2002 08:15 PM"My hair glitters like real gold," she said, "and no one can see the stars gleaming in it. Stars shine most brightly in the darkest sky."
Posted by: Jintzie Hardy at June 2, 2002 10:58 PM"And what about the wings?", mom asked.
"Oh, the wings - they should be filmy and rainbowy, but steely like an armor when in full compass."
"The feathers would be of the most vorpal steel polished to reflect light like a prism...then I would soop down and..."
Posted by: kitgefallen at June 3, 2002 03:31 PMShe cocked her small head, listening to unheard sounds. "Mommy, can I go play with the flying monkeys again?"
Posted by: newcbauer at June 3, 2002 03:32 PM"No you may not, they're a bad influence," her mother answered without hesitation. "Ever since you've been playing with them, I've noticed you disobeying The Goddess more and more."
Posted by: John at June 3, 2002 06:29 PMThe girl began to cry. "Now, now, my dear, if you're good, maybe when your aunte comes over for the week, maybe she'll let you gaze into her crystal ball."
Posted by: Pollux at June 3, 2002 08:51 PM"And do you think she'll tell me that ancient Dacian charm against the wrinkled skin? You know, the one with 'za, zi, laie fii'..."
Posted by: Anca at June 4, 2002 05:41 AM"NO!" screamed her mother. "Those aren't the right words. They'll summon--"
Posted by: kitgefallen at June 4, 2002 04:07 PMAlas, her mother was too late. As the red smoke began to dissipate, the little girl gasped in horror as she saw a 20-foot tall John Ashcroft doing the macarena.
Posted by: John at June 5, 2002 06:33 AMThis was enough to make the girl's young, lithe body shrivel into a flat, black wrinkled disc, like a chocolate donut thats been left too long in the micro-wave.
Posted by: Michael at June 5, 2002 03:18 PMHer mother steeled her courage. "In the name of Harriet Woods and Jean Carnahan I dispel the!"
Posted by: kitgefallen at June 6, 2002 12:36 PM