Tag! You're it...
photo: Thinkstock
I had a thought a while back about working up an interactive writing exercise that might be fun. My idea is to build a collaborative story one sentence at a time—a writers’ game of tag or a literary relay race. I’m sure there must be some sort of children’s game that exists along these lines where a group of kids sitting around a campfire take turns adding details to a story.
Hey Folks!!
Okay, anyone interested in being part of a bloody easy writing experiment, join me on this one.
ahblack57 started this line-by-line story where you can add one line at a time to carry on the story and if you want to contribute (the more the merrier!), click through to the original post and add in your line to the ongoing story in the comment section!
Today, Garret was going to get the girl he’d been dreaming about for the last year.
(starting one here? cool!)
As he lay back and plugged himself into the pan-global interweb and felt the tell-tale charging of his wifi-neuro-port, he kept repeating that thought to himself, over and over.
The electrons moved down his spine; his sensation centers activated, honing on her touch, enhancing her taste, actualizing her scent, recreating her voice, and cycling her perfect image through his brain like an old, broken projector reel flapping repetitively against the backs of his rapidly fluttering eyes.
He held her face in his hands and longingly looked into her endless ruby-red eyes flecked with shards of blue, aching to be with her – but he had work to do if that were ever to happen and so he blinked and when his eyes opened he was on the precipice of the digital firewall it had taken weeks to get over.
The security-bots had already started pushing him back, and he knew he had but moments to snag her blueprints so he could finally get started on her; the real her.
With a series of deft finger movements he raised a chameleon program over his digital skin and with his exit beacon already secure near his feet he launched himself into the void between the firewall and the torrential flow of data that was his entry point into the domain of the Cruisologist, the insane sect that had taken her from him, taken her, just because they could.