Ok people,

I know we can do better than this.  Is there no one who wants to add to the story?  Or does it end with our friend Charlie walking down the hill to feed his dozen sheep? (thanks Mark!).  As glad as I am that Mark humored me by playing the game, I was hoping this would start a great thread.  If I can only get my husband to read the blog that we both (mostly) own, well then maybe I should just give it up.

But hmm… maybe this story DOES end with Charlie feeding his sheep.

Perhaps, then, we should begin anew. Yes?

Play? Play with me?


Again, the premise– I’ve started us off with a few sentences.  You read the story and add to it with a few words, sentences, paragraphs,  thoughts, whatever you have time/interest for (oooh–perhaps an illustration? You can email it to me and I will post it).  I will pull all comments up to the main blog body.

Let us begin:

The wind was hot, not at all refreshing.   She sat on the bench with her head towards the sky, watching two crows bounce on the cable line.  Moments passed, and then she was brought to sharp attention by a loud noise somewhere behind her.  The sound of the loud crash rang in her ears. She turned to see what it was, and to her surprise, saw a large man carrying an unreasonable number of cymbals in large bags.  One had fallen to the ground, and he was wrestling with his fat white cat on a leash while trying to collect his dropped cymbals.  Being a percussionist herself, she was immediately drawn to the varying sizes and weights of the cymbals.  She had always preferred the large, marching band staples which effortlessly created a sense of excitement.  She wondered whether she might filch a set while the large man was focused on his cat.  Then suddenly, in the distance, she began to hear the emergency alarms.  It was time.  The war had begun.

The sudden sounding of alarms frightened the fat cat, who managed to escape as his flustered owner dropped the rest of his cymbals to the ground, causing further emotional scarring to the cat who already suffered from anxiety.  The large man stared at the mess of his cymbals on the ground as he watched the cat run away, red leash trailing.  Should he collect his cymbals, or run after the cat?  He couldn’t run very quickly.  What if he couldn’t catch the cat? Who would feed it its Xanax?

Shrugging, he left the cymbals and went after the cat who dashed down the pathway into the thick of the park. “New cymbals will have to wait,” thought the girl as she reluctantly got up from the quiet of her bench to aid the man in his cat saving quest. The sounds of the sirens continued to swirl around the scene, the mix of heat and fumes rising up from cars and trucks stuck in a mass on the street as emergency squads forced their way through the traffic.  The man weaved his way way through the trees and bushes where he thought he had seen the cat go, the woman following quietly behind him.  He was unsteady on his feet, panting and out of shape. As he made his way up a hill, the sound of the sirens from the street continued to grow in number and volume.  “What the heck is going on over there?” the man wondered for a second, before stopping short at the top of the hill. He was absolutely stunned that he saw…