This was the least virulent strain thus far. I am not surprised. I have not been coughing and sneezing on a lot of people's blogs as of late, and have not really been feeling all that ill, to be honest.
I am very thankful to those who did come down with an infection, and remember them fondly here.
If you were infected and not been remembered, please let me know and I will correct it.
Thank you!
December 8
Splotchy
December 9
Cormac Brown
December 10
David Barber
MRMACRUM
Randal G
December 11
Michael J. Solender
Mike Wilkerson
December 12
CJT
crybbe666
Übermilf
December 13
Beach Bum
mdjb
December 16
Pipe Tobacco
December 18
mkooch
December 21
austere
Showing posts with label this story is a virus. Show all posts
Showing posts with label this story is a virus. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Story Virus v5
So begins Story Virus, v5.
For those unfamiliar, here's a recap:
There always has to be a start of a story, so here it is.
***
The mall was crowded. There were happy people, angry people, people in a hurry, even a few people sleeping on benches. To the security guard, they were a blur of coats, hats and scarves. He was just beginning his second eight hour shift. He yawned, leaning against a pillar in the food court, the aftertaste of terrible mall cookies lingering on his tongue. His eyes abruptly snapped open with the loud sound of glass shattering behind him.
***
Please continue this story virus.
I tag:
Randal G
Tantra Flower
Matt Debenham
FranIAm
Amy Guth
Freida Bee
Cormac Brown
Becca
Dr MVM
Bubs
Vikkitikkitavi
Liberality
Some Guy
Doc
Snape
Chef Cthulhu
SamuraiFrog
Flannery Alden
Megan
Blue Gal
For those unfamiliar, here's a recap:
Here's what I would like to do. I want to create a story that branches out in a variety of different, unexpected ways. I don't know how realistic it is, but that's what I'm aiming for. Hopefully, at least one thread of the story can make a decent number of hops before it dies out.
If you are one of the carriers of this story virus (i.e. you have been tagged and choose to contribute to it), you will have one responsibility, in addition to contributing your own piece of the story: you will have to tag at least one person that continues your story thread. So, say you tag five people. If four people decide to not participate, it's okay, as long as the fifth one does. And if all five participate, well that's five interesting threads the story spins off into.
Not a requirement, but something your readers would appreciate: to help people trace your own particular thread of the narrative, it will be helpful if you include links to the chapters preceding yours.
There always has to be a start of a story, so here it is.
***
The mall was crowded. There were happy people, angry people, people in a hurry, even a few people sleeping on benches. To the security guard, they were a blur of coats, hats and scarves. He was just beginning his second eight hour shift. He yawned, leaning against a pillar in the food court, the aftertaste of terrible mall cookies lingering on his tongue. His eyes abruptly snapped open with the loud sound of glass shattering behind him.
***
Please continue this story virus.
I tag:
Randal G
Tantra Flower
Matt Debenham
FranIAm
Amy Guth
Freida Bee
Cormac Brown
Becca
Dr MVM
Bubs
Vikkitikkitavi
Liberality
Some Guy
Doc
Snape
Chef Cthulhu
SamuraiFrog
Flannery Alden
Megan
Blue Gal
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Remembering The Infected v4
This was the weakest story virus thus far. Sure, it hurt some people, but it did nothing compared to the damage done by the previous strains.
Still, let us remember the fallen.
If you have succumbed to the virus, or know someone currently exhibiting symptoms, please let me know and I will update the memorial.
May 19, 2009
Splotchy
May 20, 2009
Randal Graves
May 21, 2009
Dean Wormer
Lockwood
May 23, 2009
Liberality
May 24, 2009
ralfast
Unfocused Me
Freida Bee
Lass
FreshHell
May 25, 2009
Übermilf
Harriet M. Welsch
May 26, 2009
Jeannie Martini
R
June 8, 2009
Megan
Brian Miller
Subtorp
June 12, 2009
Megan (reinfected!)
June 14, 2009
Annie Ha
June 20, 2009
Chef Cthlulhu
July 15, 2009
Beach Bum
Still, let us remember the fallen.
If you have succumbed to the virus, or know someone currently exhibiting symptoms, please let me know and I will update the memorial.
May 19, 2009
Splotchy
May 20, 2009
Randal Graves
May 21, 2009
Dean Wormer
Lockwood
May 23, 2009
Liberality
May 24, 2009
ralfast
Unfocused Me
Freida Bee
Lass
FreshHell
May 25, 2009
Übermilf
Harriet M. Welsch
May 26, 2009
Jeannie Martini
R
June 8, 2009
Megan
Brian Miller
Subtorp
June 12, 2009
Megan (reinfected!)
June 14, 2009
Annie Ha
June 20, 2009
Chef Cthlulhu
July 15, 2009
Beach Bum
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Story Virus v4
For those visiting this blog for a while, you may have noticed a story virus popping up every six months or so. Well, it's been six months since v3, so that means this must be v4.
For those unfamiliar, here's a recap:
There always has to be a start of a story, so here it is.
***
The ground crunched beneath my feet. Besides my noisy footsteps, I heard only the sound of the gentle crackling fire behind me. Its faint orange light lazily revealed my immediate surroundings. Beyond the glow, there was total blackness. I whistled. I took the small rock I had been carrying and whipped it away from me, expecting a thud, crack or plop -- but a soft yelp of a cry answered.
***
Please continue this story virus.
I tag:
Randal G
Jess
FranIAm
Freida Bee
Becca
Dr MVM
Bubs
Vikkitikkitavi
Liberality
Some Guy
Doc
Snape
DCup
Chef Cthulhu
SamuraiFrog
Flannery Alden
Megan
For those unfamiliar, here's a recap:
Here's what I would like to do. I want to create a story that branches out in a variety of different, unexpected ways. I don't know how realistic it is, but that's what I'm aiming for. Hopefully, at least one thread of the story can make a decent number of hops before it dies out.
If you are one of the carriers of this story virus (i.e. you have been tagged and choose to contribute to it), you will have one responsibility, in addition to contributing your own piece of the story: you will have to tag at least one person that continues your story thread. So, say you tag five people. If four people decide to not participate, it's okay, as long as the fifth one does. And if all five participate, well that's five interesting threads the story spins off into.
Not a requirement, but something your readers would appreciate: to help people trace your own particular thread of the narrative, it will be helpful if you include links to the chapters preceding yours.
There always has to be a start of a story, so here it is.
***
The ground crunched beneath my feet. Besides my noisy footsteps, I heard only the sound of the gentle crackling fire behind me. Its faint orange light lazily revealed my immediate surroundings. Beyond the glow, there was total blackness. I whistled. I took the small rock I had been carrying and whipped it away from me, expecting a thud, crack or plop -- but a soft yelp of a cry answered.
***
Please continue this story virus.
I tag:
Randal G
Jess
FranIAm
Freida Bee
Becca
Dr MVM
Bubs
Vikkitikkitavi
Liberality
Some Guy
Doc
Snape
DCup
Chef Cthulhu
SamuraiFrog
Flannery Alden
Megan
Thursday, December 18, 2008
The Story Virus Is Weak But Persistent
As you can see from my Story Virus v3 Memorial, the virus is not thriving at this point, but it's not quite dead, either.
Alas, I have been infected with it yet again. Here's the strain I was hit with.
The bus was more crowded than usual. It was bitterly cold outside, and I hadn't prepared for it. I noticed that a fair number of the riders were dressed curiously. As I glanced around, I stretched my feet and kicked up against a large, heavy cardboard box laying under the seat in front of me. (Splotchy)
Its owner, a fat shifty-looking hillbilly, slouched uncomfortably under the weight of his Bulgarian army surplus wool coat and cap. I could tell he wasn't cut out for this weather. He jerked around, almost spastic, when he felt the box tap against his feet. He gulped and stared at me bug-eyed, one obscene rivulet of sweat running down his temple, down along his jaw, finally disappearing somewhere between his second chin and the fake fur collar of his coat.
Right away, and for no good reason, he pissed me off. (Bubs)
He would not stop staring at me. I could hear his wheezing breath. I could smell every stinking minute of his sputtering life. My muscles tensed.
We were a little isolated from the rest of the riders. I looked around. Apart from a couple greasy-looking hippies stealing glances in my direction, everyone was in their own dazed world. Another rivulet of sweat began the long journey down the hillbilly's fat face. He licked his lips.
Enough was enough. I shot my arm up and popped him right between the eyes, snapping his head back. He slumped forward. I felt my anger slowly recede. I reached over him, took the cap off his head and placed it on my own. It smelled like a slaughterhouse, but it would keep me warm.
In the corner of my eye, I noticed the hippies making their way over to me. The man, wearing a dirty poncho and sporting a handlebar mustache, sat down in my seat. I reflexively scooted over to not have him in my lap. The girl, a smallish brunette wearing heavy black eyeliner and a shapeless green coat, sat behind me.
"You see, Snow?" the man said. "I knew he was the one. Did you see that jab?"
"Whatever," Snow said.
"That was great, man. Snow thought the guy in front of you was the one."
He must have spotted confusion in my eyes. "We saw the box, but we didn't know if it was yours." The man smiled broadly. "I'm Rain. You're Leaf, right?"
I looked at him more closely. He was wearing a shoulder holster under his poncho. He had deep green eyes that were sharp and serious. The smile left his face as abruptly as it had appeared. "You better get the box ready." (Splotchy)
I looked him deep in the eyes. There was something familiar there. Something from...
It hit me.
"Dad?" (SamuraiFrog)
"What you talkin' about, punk?"
"You're...my Dad. I've seen the pictures."
"The pictures. WHAT pictures?"
"the pictures of you and my Mom, Sally Swinton."
"Sally! I remember Sally. She was a good one, she was. Whatever happened with her?" (Roger Owen Green)
I didn't need to tell him. It was none of his business. "She's in a Cryo Lab in Encino." Shit.
Rain's jaw dropped. "Wait, she's a scientist?"
"No, she has an inoperable tumor. She had herself cryogenically frozen until a cure is found."
"Sally's a POPSICLE?"
Snow chuckled and slapped me on the back. "Far out, man."
I felt anger ripple through me again. I spoke softly through clenched teeth, "She is not a popsicle. She's my mother."
The bus stopped. A few riders stepped off.
Rain grabbed the box and jumped out the rear door. When he popped back on his hands were empty. He stared intently out the window as the bus pulled away from the curb and made its way down the block. He turned to me. "How long are they gonna keep her frozen?"
"As long as it takes," I grumbled.
"That's gotta take a lot of money. Is she loaded?"
I didn't like where this conversation was headed. "She does okay."
Rain stroked his chin for a few moments. "Are you loaded?"
"Nope."
Rain's smile returned. "I wanna see her."
Suddenly, the bus shuddered. Several side windows cracked. My forehead smacked against the seat in front of me as we screeched to a halt. The remaining riders bolted outside, except for the hillbilly, who was still slumped in the same position, sweating and wheezing. Rain and Snow didn't move. I looked down the street and saw the plume of a fireball.
Rain giggled. "Hey, no sense in letting the box go to waste, right? Let's go see your mom." (Splotchy)
Who can I tag? Who can I tag?
I don't know that the following people will have the time or inclination to continue the virus, so I am tagging a shitpile of them.
Tim
Barbara
Johnny Yen
Jim Woodring
Warren Ellis
Lulu
Eugene Mirman
Jon
Tenacious S
Harvey Pekar
Alas, I have been infected with it yet again. Here's the strain I was hit with.
The bus was more crowded than usual. It was bitterly cold outside, and I hadn't prepared for it. I noticed that a fair number of the riders were dressed curiously. As I glanced around, I stretched my feet and kicked up against a large, heavy cardboard box laying under the seat in front of me. (Splotchy)
Its owner, a fat shifty-looking hillbilly, slouched uncomfortably under the weight of his Bulgarian army surplus wool coat and cap. I could tell he wasn't cut out for this weather. He jerked around, almost spastic, when he felt the box tap against his feet. He gulped and stared at me bug-eyed, one obscene rivulet of sweat running down his temple, down along his jaw, finally disappearing somewhere between his second chin and the fake fur collar of his coat.
Right away, and for no good reason, he pissed me off. (Bubs)
He would not stop staring at me. I could hear his wheezing breath. I could smell every stinking minute of his sputtering life. My muscles tensed.
We were a little isolated from the rest of the riders. I looked around. Apart from a couple greasy-looking hippies stealing glances in my direction, everyone was in their own dazed world. Another rivulet of sweat began the long journey down the hillbilly's fat face. He licked his lips.
Enough was enough. I shot my arm up and popped him right between the eyes, snapping his head back. He slumped forward. I felt my anger slowly recede. I reached over him, took the cap off his head and placed it on my own. It smelled like a slaughterhouse, but it would keep me warm.
In the corner of my eye, I noticed the hippies making their way over to me. The man, wearing a dirty poncho and sporting a handlebar mustache, sat down in my seat. I reflexively scooted over to not have him in my lap. The girl, a smallish brunette wearing heavy black eyeliner and a shapeless green coat, sat behind me.
"You see, Snow?" the man said. "I knew he was the one. Did you see that jab?"
"Whatever," Snow said.
"That was great, man. Snow thought the guy in front of you was the one."
He must have spotted confusion in my eyes. "We saw the box, but we didn't know if it was yours." The man smiled broadly. "I'm Rain. You're Leaf, right?"
I looked at him more closely. He was wearing a shoulder holster under his poncho. He had deep green eyes that were sharp and serious. The smile left his face as abruptly as it had appeared. "You better get the box ready." (Splotchy)
I looked him deep in the eyes. There was something familiar there. Something from...
It hit me.
"Dad?" (SamuraiFrog)
"What you talkin' about, punk?"
"You're...my Dad. I've seen the pictures."
"The pictures. WHAT pictures?"
"the pictures of you and my Mom, Sally Swinton."
"Sally! I remember Sally. She was a good one, she was. Whatever happened with her?" (Roger Owen Green)
I didn't need to tell him. It was none of his business. "She's in a Cryo Lab in Encino." Shit.
Rain's jaw dropped. "Wait, she's a scientist?"
"No, she has an inoperable tumor. She had herself cryogenically frozen until a cure is found."
"Sally's a POPSICLE?"
Snow chuckled and slapped me on the back. "Far out, man."
I felt anger ripple through me again. I spoke softly through clenched teeth, "She is not a popsicle. She's my mother."
The bus stopped. A few riders stepped off.
Rain grabbed the box and jumped out the rear door. When he popped back on his hands were empty. He stared intently out the window as the bus pulled away from the curb and made its way down the block. He turned to me. "How long are they gonna keep her frozen?"
"As long as it takes," I grumbled.
"That's gotta take a lot of money. Is she loaded?"
I didn't like where this conversation was headed. "She does okay."
Rain stroked his chin for a few moments. "Are you loaded?"
"Nope."
Rain's smile returned. "I wanna see her."
Suddenly, the bus shuddered. Several side windows cracked. My forehead smacked against the seat in front of me as we screeched to a halt. The remaining riders bolted outside, except for the hillbilly, who was still slumped in the same position, sweating and wheezing. Rain and Snow didn't move. I looked down the street and saw the plume of a fireball.
Rain giggled. "Hey, no sense in letting the box go to waste, right? Let's go see your mom." (Splotchy)
Who can I tag? Who can I tag?
I don't know that the following people will have the time or inclination to continue the virus, so I am tagging a shitpile of them.
Tim
Barbara
Johnny Yen
Jim Woodring
Warren Ellis
Lulu
Eugene Mirman
Jon
Tenacious S
Harvey Pekar
Monday, December 15, 2008
Remembering The Infected v3
I'm not sure how much fight the story virus has in it. We'll just have to wait and see.
I have been updating the memorial with the fallen as I become aware of them. If you have succumbed to the virus, or know someone currently exhibiting symptoms, please let me know and I will update the memorial.
December 5, 2008
Splotchy
p0nk
December 6, 2008
Randal Graves
Utah Savage
December 7, 2008
Beach Bum
Dcup
Dusty
Freida of the Bees
Liberality
Susan
December 8, 2008
~E
Bull
CDP
Cormac Brown
David
Dguzman
Geo
PaulBrazill
SamuraiFrog
Some Guy
themom
Bill Stankus
December 9, 2008
Bacon Lady
Bubs
Bubs
Cormac Brown
Flannery Alden
Freida of the Bees
Genn6
Laura
LegalMist
Michael
Morgan the Muse
Sausage Mechanic
Scutterman
Southern Belle
That Damn Expat
TishTash
Jeannelle
John
December 10, 2008
Gifted Typist
KaliAmanda
MRMacrum
Splotchy
Wooden Spoons
Sherry
Joshlos
Andy
Laura
Earth Muffin
Darius
Gwen
Madam Z
December 11, 2008
SamuraiFrog
Becca
MelO
Spartacus
Geoffrey
December 12, 2008
Scope
Erudite Redneck
December 13, 2008
Toivoa ja Elämän
Enc
Kaitlyn
Maki
Manx
Bubs
Crystal
Randal Graves
Miss Cavendish
December 14, 2008
Jeff D
The Lady Who Doesn't Lunch
December 15, 2008
Carrin
Linka72
Dean Wormer
December 16, 2008
PaulBrazill
Don Snabulus
December 17, 2008
Dr. Zaius
Dr. Zaius
December 18, 2008
Roger Owen Green
Splotchy
December 19, 2008
Jon
December 20, 2008
Jean-Luc Picard
December 21, 2008
Dr. Nemonok
I have been updating the memorial with the fallen as I become aware of them. If you have succumbed to the virus, or know someone currently exhibiting symptoms, please let me know and I will update the memorial.
December 5, 2008
Splotchy
p0nk
December 6, 2008
Randal Graves
Utah Savage
December 7, 2008
Beach Bum
Dcup
Dusty
Freida of the Bees
Liberality
Susan
December 8, 2008
~E
Bull
CDP
Cormac Brown
David
Dguzman
Geo
PaulBrazill
SamuraiFrog
Some Guy
themom
Bill Stankus
December 9, 2008
Bacon Lady
Bubs
Bubs
Cormac Brown
Flannery Alden
Freida of the Bees
Genn6
Laura
LegalMist
Michael
Morgan the Muse
Sausage Mechanic
Scutterman
Southern Belle
That Damn Expat
TishTash
Jeannelle
John
December 10, 2008
Gifted Typist
KaliAmanda
MRMacrum
Splotchy
Wooden Spoons
Sherry
Joshlos
Andy
Laura
Earth Muffin
Darius
Gwen
Madam Z
December 11, 2008
SamuraiFrog
Becca
MelO
Spartacus
Geoffrey
December 12, 2008
Scope
Erudite Redneck
December 13, 2008
Toivoa ja Elämän
Enc
Kaitlyn
Maki
Manx
Bubs
Crystal
Randal Graves
Miss Cavendish
December 14, 2008
Jeff D
The Lady Who Doesn't Lunch
December 15, 2008
Carrin
Linka72
Dean Wormer
December 16, 2008
PaulBrazill
Don Snabulus
December 17, 2008
Dr. Zaius
Dr. Zaius
December 18, 2008
Roger Owen Green
Splotchy
December 19, 2008
Jon
December 20, 2008
Jean-Luc Picard
December 21, 2008
Dr. Nemonok
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
The Story Virus Continues
I have been reinfected!
The bus was more crowded than usual. It was bitterly cold outside, and I hadn't prepared for it. I noticed that a fair number of the riders were dressed curiously. As I glanced around, I stretched my feet and kicked up against a large, heavy cardboard box laying under the seat in front of me. (Splotchy)
Its owner, a fat shifty-looking hillbilly, slouched uncomfortably under the weight of his Bulgarian army surplus wool coat and cap. I could tell he wasn't cut out for this weather. He jerked around, almost spastic, when he felt the box tap against his feet. He gulped and stared at me bug-eyed, one obscene rivulet of sweat running down his temple, down along his jaw, finally disappearing somewhere between his second chin and the fake fur collar of his coat.
Right away, and for no good reason, he pissed me off. (Bubs)
He would not stop staring at me. I could hear his wheezing breath. I could smell every stinking minute of his sputtering life. My muscles tensed.
We were a little isolated from the rest of the riders. I looked around. Apart from a couple greasy-looking hippies stealing glances in my direction, everyone was in their own dazed world. Another rivulet of sweat began the long journey down the hillbilly's fat face. He licked his lips.
Enough was enough. I shot my arm up and popped him right between the eyes, snapping his head back. He slumped forward. I felt my anger slowly recede. I reached over him, took the cap off his head and placed it on my own. It smelled like a slaughterhouse, but it would keep me warm.
In the corner of my eye, I noticed the hippies making their way over to me. The man, wearing a dirty poncho and sporting a handlebar mustache, sat down in my seat. I reflexively scooted over to not have him in my lap. The girl, a smallish brunette wearing heavy black eyeliner and a shapeless green coat, sat behind me.
"You see, Snow?" the man said. "I knew he was the one. Did you see that jab?"
"Whatever," Snow said.
"That was great, man. Snow thought the guy in front of you was the one."
He must have spotted confusion in my eyes. "We saw the box, but we didn't know if it was yours." The man smiled broadly. "I'm Rain. You're Leaf, right?"
I looked at him more closely. He was wearing a shoulder holster under his poncho. He had deep green eyes that were sharp and serious. The smile left his face as abruptly as it had appeared. "You better get the box ready." (Splotchy)
Please continue this story virus!
I tag:
McGone
Manx
SamuraiFrog (Yes, I am tagging you again)
Jin
Cowboy the Cat
Allen L
Bubs (right back at ya)
The bus was more crowded than usual. It was bitterly cold outside, and I hadn't prepared for it. I noticed that a fair number of the riders were dressed curiously. As I glanced around, I stretched my feet and kicked up against a large, heavy cardboard box laying under the seat in front of me. (Splotchy)
Its owner, a fat shifty-looking hillbilly, slouched uncomfortably under the weight of his Bulgarian army surplus wool coat and cap. I could tell he wasn't cut out for this weather. He jerked around, almost spastic, when he felt the box tap against his feet. He gulped and stared at me bug-eyed, one obscene rivulet of sweat running down his temple, down along his jaw, finally disappearing somewhere between his second chin and the fake fur collar of his coat.
Right away, and for no good reason, he pissed me off. (Bubs)
He would not stop staring at me. I could hear his wheezing breath. I could smell every stinking minute of his sputtering life. My muscles tensed.
We were a little isolated from the rest of the riders. I looked around. Apart from a couple greasy-looking hippies stealing glances in my direction, everyone was in their own dazed world. Another rivulet of sweat began the long journey down the hillbilly's fat face. He licked his lips.
Enough was enough. I shot my arm up and popped him right between the eyes, snapping his head back. He slumped forward. I felt my anger slowly recede. I reached over him, took the cap off his head and placed it on my own. It smelled like a slaughterhouse, but it would keep me warm.
In the corner of my eye, I noticed the hippies making their way over to me. The man, wearing a dirty poncho and sporting a handlebar mustache, sat down in my seat. I reflexively scooted over to not have him in my lap. The girl, a smallish brunette wearing heavy black eyeliner and a shapeless green coat, sat behind me.
"You see, Snow?" the man said. "I knew he was the one. Did you see that jab?"
"Whatever," Snow said.
"That was great, man. Snow thought the guy in front of you was the one."
He must have spotted confusion in my eyes. "We saw the box, but we didn't know if it was yours." The man smiled broadly. "I'm Rain. You're Leaf, right?"
I looked at him more closely. He was wearing a shoulder holster under his poncho. He had deep green eyes that were sharp and serious. The smile left his face as abruptly as it had appeared. "You better get the box ready." (Splotchy)
Please continue this story virus!
I tag:
McGone
Manx
SamuraiFrog (Yes, I am tagging you again)
Jin
Cowboy the Cat
Allen L
Bubs (right back at ya)
Friday, December 5, 2008
Son Of The Son Of The Story Virus (v3)
Ooooh, it's cold outside. I don't feel so good. I think I am coming down with another story virus.
For those unfamiliar, here's a recap:
There always has to be a start of a story, so here it is.
***
The bus was more crowded than usual. It was bitterly cold outside, and I hadn't prepared for it. I noticed that a fair number of the riders were dressed curiously. As I glanced around, I stretched my feet and kicked up against a large, heavy cardboard box laying under the seat in front of me.
***
Please continue this story virus.
I tag:
Randal G
Jess
Gifted Typist
FranIAm
Freida Bee
Becca
Dr MVM
Bubs
Rider
p0nk
Vikkitikkitavi
Liberality
Some Guy
Doc
Snape
DCup
Skylers Dad
Falwless
Grant Miller
SamuraiFrog
Flannery Alden
For those unfamiliar, here's a recap:
Here's what I would like to do. I want to create a story that branches out in a variety of different, unexpected ways. I don't know how realistic it is, but that's what I'm aiming for. Hopefully, at least one thread of the story can make a decent number of hops before it dies out.
If you are one of the carriers of this story virus (i.e. you have been tagged and choose to contribute to it), you will have one responsibility, in addition to contributing your own piece of the story: you will have to tag at least one person that continues your story thread. So, say you tag five people. If four people decide to not participate, it's okay, as long as the fifth one does. And if all five participate, well that's five interesting threads the story spins off into.
Not a requirement, but something your readers would appreciate: to help people trace your own particular thread of the narrative, it will be helpful if you include links to the chapters preceding yours.
There always has to be a start of a story, so here it is.
***
The bus was more crowded than usual. It was bitterly cold outside, and I hadn't prepared for it. I noticed that a fair number of the riders were dressed curiously. As I glanced around, I stretched my feet and kicked up against a large, heavy cardboard box laying under the seat in front of me.
***
Please continue this story virus.
I tag:
Randal G
Jess
Gifted Typist
FranIAm
Freida Bee
Becca
Dr MVM
Bubs
Rider
p0nk
Vikkitikkitavi
Liberality
Some Guy
Doc
Snape
DCup
Skylers Dad
Falwless
Grant Miller
SamuraiFrog
Flannery Alden
Friday, May 30, 2008
Story Virus 1 and 2: A Brief Comparison
A comment by DGuzman inspired me to a create a simple graphical representation of the spread of the two story virii.
The first virus was far more heartier than the second one. There's a lot of possible reasons for this -- May seems to be a traditionally light blogging month, there's nice weather outside, the second time around the idea of a story virus is not a novel concept, etc.
I think I might do this again at the end of the year, assuming people's creative juices have had a chance to replenish.
It's been a lot of fun. I may have to kidnap a little pig to get friend of the blog McGone to participate if I have another go-around, though thanks to Susan there were still some nice original illustrations for the second virus.
Virus 1
XX
XXXXXXXXXX
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XXXXXXXX
XXXXXXX
XXXXX
X
X
XX
XX
X
Virus 2
X
XXXXXXXX
XXXXXXXXXXXX
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
XXX
XXX
X
XXX
XXXX
X
X
X
XX
The first virus was far more heartier than the second one. There's a lot of possible reasons for this -- May seems to be a traditionally light blogging month, there's nice weather outside, the second time around the idea of a story virus is not a novel concept, etc.
I think I might do this again at the end of the year, assuming people's creative juices have had a chance to replenish.
It's been a lot of fun. I may have to kidnap a little pig to get friend of the blog McGone to participate if I have another go-around, though thanks to Susan there were still some nice original illustrations for the second virus.
Virus 1
XX
XXXXXXXXXX
XXXXXXXXX
XXXXXXXXXXX
XXXXXXXXXX
XXXXXXXXXXXXXX
XXXXXXXX
XXXXXXXX
XXXXXXX
XXXXX
X
X
XX
XX
X
Virus 2
X
XXXXXXXX
XXXXXXXXXXXX
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
XXX
XXX
X
XXX
XXXX
X
X
X
XX
Remembering The Infected v2
From what I can tell, the second eruption of the story virus has been contained.
This post serves as a solemn marker for those stricken with it.
Different people have remarked about the virus as being an example of exquisite corpse, but the fact that the virus can shoot into multiple directions and threads at once makes me want to call it the exquisite exploding corpse.
Anyways, I thank everyone for being a part of this. If you don't see your contribution included, just let me know and I'll add it.
Here's to the infected of the Story Virus (v2) -- may your memory live on!
May 14, 2008
Splotchy
May 15, 2008
FranIAm
DGuzman
Freida Bee
M.Yu
Dean Wormer
Randal G
p0nk
Wyldth1ng
May 16, 2008
Jess
Bubs
Splotchy
kyuuri
WriteProcastinator
Liberality
Fairlane
DCup
Mathman
Magdalene6127
Kirby
Germaine Gregarious
May 17, 2008
Cowboy The Cat
Randal G
Freida Bee
Commander Other
Pain
Splotchy
Jess
Don Snabulus
Quin Browne
Liberality
Lonie Polony
Susan
Bug O' Death
Doc
SkylersDad
May 18, 2008
Freida Bee
littlesnoring
Dr MVM
May 19, 2008
Katie Schwartz
Christina
Bob
May 20, 2008
SamuraiFrog
The Imaginary Reviewer
May 21, 2008
Jillian
The Moody Minstrel
Sean
May 22, 2008
John
Becca
Becca (another infection in the same day!)
Herbal Amanda
May 23, 2008
Captain Incredible
May 25, 2008
The Imaginary Reviewer
May 26, 2008
BHB
May 27, 2008
Dark Neuro
Splotchy
This post serves as a solemn marker for those stricken with it.
Different people have remarked about the virus as being an example of exquisite corpse, but the fact that the virus can shoot into multiple directions and threads at once makes me want to call it the exquisite exploding corpse.
Anyways, I thank everyone for being a part of this. If you don't see your contribution included, just let me know and I'll add it.
Here's to the infected of the Story Virus (v2) -- may your memory live on!
May 14, 2008
Splotchy
May 15, 2008
FranIAm
DGuzman
Freida Bee
M.Yu
Dean Wormer
Randal G
p0nk
Wyldth1ng
May 16, 2008
Jess
Bubs
Splotchy
kyuuri
WriteProcastinator
Liberality
Fairlane
DCup
Mathman
Magdalene6127
Kirby
Germaine Gregarious
May 17, 2008
Cowboy The Cat
Randal G
Freida Bee
Commander Other
Pain
Splotchy
Jess
Don Snabulus
Quin Browne
Liberality
Lonie Polony
Susan
Bug O' Death
Doc
SkylersDad
May 18, 2008
Freida Bee
littlesnoring
Dr MVM
May 19, 2008
Katie Schwartz
Christina
Bob
May 20, 2008
SamuraiFrog
The Imaginary Reviewer
May 21, 2008
Jillian
The Moody Minstrel
Sean
May 22, 2008
John
Becca
Becca (another infection in the same day!)
Herbal Amanda
May 23, 2008
Captain Incredible
May 25, 2008
The Imaginary Reviewer
May 26, 2008
BHB
May 27, 2008
Dark Neuro
Splotchy
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Quadruply Infected
I had been shuffling around the house for a few hours and already felt tired. The doorbell rang. I opened the front door and saw a figure striding away from the house, quickly and purposefully. I looked down and saw a bulky envelope. I picked it up. The handwriting was smudged and cramped, and I could only make out a few words.(Splotchy)
I looked up and down the street but didn’t see any delivery truck, or any car for that matter. No FedEx, no UPS , no creepy-looking porno'd-out conversion van with a half-assed delivery service sign taped to its side. Nothing. It's like delivery man just disappeared. I stepped back inside, re-set the deadbolts and took a closer look at the envelope.
Mentally I ran through the checklist of letter bomb warning signs. The handwriting on the envelope, smudged and cramped as it was, was laid out in a tiny, obsessively neat block lettering. It practically screamed recently-de-institutionalized loner with time on his hands. No ticking or whirring sounds, that’s good. No odd smells, no leaks or stains on the package. Check. Weight seemed evenly distributed, that’s good too. I decided to open it.
Inside I found a plane ticket to Pensacola, a business card for a lawyer in Niceville, five crisp $100 bills and a four page handwritten note. Well. This was different. I poured a cup of coffee, threw some meat to the dogs to stop em barking, and sat down to read. (Bubs)
The handwriting of the letter was different than the envelope. It was more rushed, erratic. And it was all in Russian. I could speak a little Russian because of the company I used to keep, but couldn't read it to save my life. I knew some people that could translate for me, but I wasn't about to see them again. Or did one of them write the note? Was it Dimitri the Finger? Petrov? Ivankovich?
I looked at the lawyer's card -- "Tom Ely" -- how whitebread, how American. The address said Niceville, but the phone number's area code was New Jersey. I dialed and waited. My dogs fought over a leftover bone outside, growling.
"Hello, this is Tom Ely, I am sorry I have missed your call..."
I didn't recognize the voice. It had the barest trace of an accent. Most people wouldn't pick up on it. But I did.
The Russians. What was I in for? I hung up.
Was I just going to sit here, waiting? Or was I going to be a good little dog when some person unseen rang my bell?
The ticket was for today. I could make the flight if I left immediately. I packed a bag and caught a cab to the airport.
(Splotchy)
The pressures of today's economy. Flight cancelled. Airline out-of-business. Three months ago. Something was out of sorts, here. Why would someone send me a ticket on a defunct airline? I was starting to feel exposed, out in the open, like prey in a valley.
First order of business was to hit the head. I needed to collect myself and not draw attention. I forced myself to walk, even with the hairs on the back of my neck bristling, uncertain if, even now, someone was following. Had I walked into some kind of trap?
The men's room door opened just a little too quickly, the screws loosened from constant use. That sticky smell hit me as that horrible men's room air shot into my nose.
Something was wrong.
I felt heavy and thick, and saw the world go askew. I was off balance before it even registered that something hard had been jabbed into the back of my neck. I raised my hand against the wall to stop myself, but the back of my head exploded in pain, I saw a flash of light, and then nothing.
(SamuraiFrog)
When I came to, I was no longer in the men's room; I was in the back of a moving vehicle, a walk-through panel truck - a delivery van, perhaps. My feet were free, but my hands were bound securely behind my back. Care had been taken not to cut off my circulation, so whoever it was knew what he was doing.
"Hey!" I yelled to the two men in the cab. The passenger looked back at me, his face impassive under a Denver Broncos cap that was a size too small for his head.
"No talking." He turned forward again, saying something in a language I didn't understand to the driver.
"Where are we going?" I said, struggling to a sitting position. I tested the ropes binding my wrists, but my name not being Houdini, there was no way I was going to undo them. When I looked up, Broncos Cap was staring at me again. So was the business end of a 9mm automatic.
"I said for no talking."
I decided he might have a point, and sat back to enjoy the ride and wonder about where I was being delivered...
(Captain Incredible)
A Review of the Viral Story
Splotchy’s second viral story, started several weeks ago on the blog I, Splotchy, shows no sign of abating. The sheer length of column inches dedicated to the general phenomenon is growing, and the number of articles on the subject are too numerous to count, let alone discuss here. A few do stand out, however, and interested parties would be well advised to seek out Christopher Hitchens’ Splotchy’s Viral Story: A Game of Consequences for the Blogosphere (The Atlantic, May 2008, p 28-34). Also worth a look are John Searle’s article for the journal Mind, entitled Splotchy’s Viral Story as Evidence of Jungian Collective Unconscious (May 2008, p 3-7, with an opposing article by Douglas Hofstadter and Daniel Dennett in the same issue, p 8-10), and Julie Birchill’s article for the May 18 Observer, No Vaccine Required: A Virus Worth Having. Given the multitude of writers commenting on the viral story as a whole, I thought I’d turn my attention to a particular offshoot, which I have entitled The Russian Story.
As with all versions of the story, we begin with the receipt of a mysterious package, as told by Splotchy himself. The address is smudged, and it appears to have been hand delivered. This is good; there is much scope for advancement of the story. As Christopher Wise writes in Diacritics, the basis for a well-realised viral story is open-endedness. Here, Splotchy has left a variety of readings available for the situation at hand (proof of this is to be found in the myriad of ways in which the story has been taken from these beginnings).
From here on in the story takes a variety of intriguing turns, involving a note from within the package, Russians and a trip to the airport that ends with our loner waking up, drugged, in the back of a cab. The caretakers of each avenue of the viral story – Bubs, Splotchy again, SamuraiFrog and Captain Incredible – have done a marvellous job in following on from where the previous author left off. There is cohesion, yet each voice remains intact, individual. Here lies another benefit of the viral story as an art form: The ability to write in numerous voices is much prized in today’s literary market, and what better way to achieve this than to have numerous writers? Sometimes, the best answer is the most obvious.
But all good things must come to an end, and, while the previous custodians of the story are to be applauded for their additions, they are sadly let down by the next bearer of the viral story torch. The Imaginary Reviewer, a blogger whose sole ability seems to be writing reviews of things that don’t exist, takes the baton from Captain Incredible, and, I regret to say, undoes all the good work done by his predecessors.
The Imaginary Reviewer’s section doesn’t really fit in with the rest of the story’s aesthetic. Problems begin when the unnamed main character finds himself transported to an abandoned warehouse. For someone who seems to pride himself on their imagination, The IR has picked the most obvious and trite location possible! A train station, a suburban house, even a small café specialising in brunches would be more interesting than an abandoned warehouse! But no, The Imaginary Reviewer presumably has used up his imagination reviewing hats.
Next, The Imaginary Reviewer has his character tied to a chair – how original – and after a short wait introduces a new character, presumably the instigator of the whole affair. Things do start to improve here; it appears that the bad guy of the piece is a well-known children’s character called Desmond the Dinosaur (in actual fact a guy called Gerald in a large, fuzzy, green suit). Our hero knows nothing about Desmond, and has no idea why the TV ‘star’ has captured him. He asks about the package and the money, and it seems Desmond has no idea what our hero is talking about. Our character’s receipt of the package and his kidnapping would appear to be coincidental.
And so, with that, The Imaginary Reviewer allows the story to be carried on by someone else. I pity the poor soul who has been left with this detritus after such promising beginnings. (For his sins, Splotchy has been tagged again, but how he’ll manage to salvage anything from the Imaginary Reviewer’s mess is beyond me). I mean, the whole story has been ruined by the IR. The dinosaur character, while presumably added for levity, just looks like the writer is trying to claw back some interest from a story that he has spoiled beyond recognition. The coincidental element of the package arriving the same day a stranger plans a kidnapping is harder to swallow than a razorblade sandwich. All in all, I think the Imaginary Reviewer should be ashamed of himself for the injustice he has done to Splotchy’s story, and viral stories in general.
(The Imaginary Reviewer)
I dropped the printout. I tasted something metallic. I raised my hand to my face. My lip was bleeding, my teeth still sunk into it. I unclenched my jaw, but my whole body was still tense, my forehead damp with sweat. There was no doubt -- the virus had leapt into the metaverse.
There were other signs, too. I had a fast food menu from a Mexican restaurant that inexplicably had an expired airplane ticket to Pensacola printed on the back. I had a travel brochure for the Ukraine with a phone number for a Tom Ely in New Jersey. Even worse, the Ten Commandments statue outside the courthouse in this very town, had an eleventh commandment now -- "I had been shuffling around the house for a few hours and already felt tired."
Was this the intent of the virus creators? I had worked on the project for several years. I was confined to working on twists and causal links, and thus never got the big picture or its overall purpose. I still didn't know. But it seemed evil. It seemed dangerous. Was the virus going to absorb everything, every thought?
How could I stop it? How did it even work?
I emptied my bag of groceries on the counter. First, food in the freezer.
Next, I picked up the black marker and the envelope. I stared hard at them both for several minutes.
I placed the envelope on the counter and uncapped the marker. I deliberately wrote in a tight, cramped style. Before the text I had written had dried, I used the side of my hand to smudge it, rendering much of it unreadable.
I sat down, lit up a cigarette, eyes on the envelope like it was going to sprout legs and walk out. If it were that simple... I stuffed the printout into the envelope. I dropped a loaded .45 into it. I scribbled a note and popped it in as well. "I can fix this," I thought to myself. "I can fix this. I can fix this."
And with these words echoing in my head, over and over, I walked out the door, wandering the streets for several hours. Picking a house at random, I approached and dropped the package at its front door. I rang the doorbell and quickly walked away.
When I got home I headed straight for the refrigerator. I opened up the freezer and pulled out a jar of frozen applesauce.
(Splotchy)
I tag no one, but welcome continuations of this strain of the virus.
I looked up and down the street but didn’t see any delivery truck, or any car for that matter. No FedEx, no UPS , no creepy-looking porno'd-out conversion van with a half-assed delivery service sign taped to its side. Nothing. It's like delivery man just disappeared. I stepped back inside, re-set the deadbolts and took a closer look at the envelope.
Mentally I ran through the checklist of letter bomb warning signs. The handwriting on the envelope, smudged and cramped as it was, was laid out in a tiny, obsessively neat block lettering. It practically screamed recently-de-institutionalized loner with time on his hands. No ticking or whirring sounds, that’s good. No odd smells, no leaks or stains on the package. Check. Weight seemed evenly distributed, that’s good too. I decided to open it.
Inside I found a plane ticket to Pensacola, a business card for a lawyer in Niceville, five crisp $100 bills and a four page handwritten note. Well. This was different. I poured a cup of coffee, threw some meat to the dogs to stop em barking, and sat down to read. (Bubs)
The handwriting of the letter was different than the envelope. It was more rushed, erratic. And it was all in Russian. I could speak a little Russian because of the company I used to keep, but couldn't read it to save my life. I knew some people that could translate for me, but I wasn't about to see them again. Or did one of them write the note? Was it Dimitri the Finger? Petrov? Ivankovich?
I looked at the lawyer's card -- "Tom Ely" -- how whitebread, how American. The address said Niceville, but the phone number's area code was New Jersey. I dialed and waited. My dogs fought over a leftover bone outside, growling.
"Hello, this is Tom Ely, I am sorry I have missed your call..."
I didn't recognize the voice. It had the barest trace of an accent. Most people wouldn't pick up on it. But I did.
The Russians. What was I in for? I hung up.
Was I just going to sit here, waiting? Or was I going to be a good little dog when some person unseen rang my bell?
The ticket was for today. I could make the flight if I left immediately. I packed a bag and caught a cab to the airport.
(Splotchy)
The pressures of today's economy. Flight cancelled. Airline out-of-business. Three months ago. Something was out of sorts, here. Why would someone send me a ticket on a defunct airline? I was starting to feel exposed, out in the open, like prey in a valley.
First order of business was to hit the head. I needed to collect myself and not draw attention. I forced myself to walk, even with the hairs on the back of my neck bristling, uncertain if, even now, someone was following. Had I walked into some kind of trap?
The men's room door opened just a little too quickly, the screws loosened from constant use. That sticky smell hit me as that horrible men's room air shot into my nose.
Something was wrong.
I felt heavy and thick, and saw the world go askew. I was off balance before it even registered that something hard had been jabbed into the back of my neck. I raised my hand against the wall to stop myself, but the back of my head exploded in pain, I saw a flash of light, and then nothing.
(SamuraiFrog)
When I came to, I was no longer in the men's room; I was in the back of a moving vehicle, a walk-through panel truck - a delivery van, perhaps. My feet were free, but my hands were bound securely behind my back. Care had been taken not to cut off my circulation, so whoever it was knew what he was doing.
"Hey!" I yelled to the two men in the cab. The passenger looked back at me, his face impassive under a Denver Broncos cap that was a size too small for his head.
"No talking." He turned forward again, saying something in a language I didn't understand to the driver.
"Where are we going?" I said, struggling to a sitting position. I tested the ropes binding my wrists, but my name not being Houdini, there was no way I was going to undo them. When I looked up, Broncos Cap was staring at me again. So was the business end of a 9mm automatic.
"I said for no talking."
I decided he might have a point, and sat back to enjoy the ride and wonder about where I was being delivered...
(Captain Incredible)
A Review of the Viral Story
Splotchy’s second viral story, started several weeks ago on the blog I, Splotchy, shows no sign of abating. The sheer length of column inches dedicated to the general phenomenon is growing, and the number of articles on the subject are too numerous to count, let alone discuss here. A few do stand out, however, and interested parties would be well advised to seek out Christopher Hitchens’ Splotchy’s Viral Story: A Game of Consequences for the Blogosphere (The Atlantic, May 2008, p 28-34). Also worth a look are John Searle’s article for the journal Mind, entitled Splotchy’s Viral Story as Evidence of Jungian Collective Unconscious (May 2008, p 3-7, with an opposing article by Douglas Hofstadter and Daniel Dennett in the same issue, p 8-10), and Julie Birchill’s article for the May 18 Observer, No Vaccine Required: A Virus Worth Having. Given the multitude of writers commenting on the viral story as a whole, I thought I’d turn my attention to a particular offshoot, which I have entitled The Russian Story.
As with all versions of the story, we begin with the receipt of a mysterious package, as told by Splotchy himself. The address is smudged, and it appears to have been hand delivered. This is good; there is much scope for advancement of the story. As Christopher Wise writes in Diacritics, the basis for a well-realised viral story is open-endedness. Here, Splotchy has left a variety of readings available for the situation at hand (proof of this is to be found in the myriad of ways in which the story has been taken from these beginnings).
From here on in the story takes a variety of intriguing turns, involving a note from within the package, Russians and a trip to the airport that ends with our loner waking up, drugged, in the back of a cab. The caretakers of each avenue of the viral story – Bubs, Splotchy again, SamuraiFrog and Captain Incredible – have done a marvellous job in following on from where the previous author left off. There is cohesion, yet each voice remains intact, individual. Here lies another benefit of the viral story as an art form: The ability to write in numerous voices is much prized in today’s literary market, and what better way to achieve this than to have numerous writers? Sometimes, the best answer is the most obvious.
But all good things must come to an end, and, while the previous custodians of the story are to be applauded for their additions, they are sadly let down by the next bearer of the viral story torch. The Imaginary Reviewer, a blogger whose sole ability seems to be writing reviews of things that don’t exist, takes the baton from Captain Incredible, and, I regret to say, undoes all the good work done by his predecessors.
The Imaginary Reviewer’s section doesn’t really fit in with the rest of the story’s aesthetic. Problems begin when the unnamed main character finds himself transported to an abandoned warehouse. For someone who seems to pride himself on their imagination, The IR has picked the most obvious and trite location possible! A train station, a suburban house, even a small café specialising in brunches would be more interesting than an abandoned warehouse! But no, The Imaginary Reviewer presumably has used up his imagination reviewing hats.
Next, The Imaginary Reviewer has his character tied to a chair – how original – and after a short wait introduces a new character, presumably the instigator of the whole affair. Things do start to improve here; it appears that the bad guy of the piece is a well-known children’s character called Desmond the Dinosaur (in actual fact a guy called Gerald in a large, fuzzy, green suit). Our hero knows nothing about Desmond, and has no idea why the TV ‘star’ has captured him. He asks about the package and the money, and it seems Desmond has no idea what our hero is talking about. Our character’s receipt of the package and his kidnapping would appear to be coincidental.
And so, with that, The Imaginary Reviewer allows the story to be carried on by someone else. I pity the poor soul who has been left with this detritus after such promising beginnings. (For his sins, Splotchy has been tagged again, but how he’ll manage to salvage anything from the Imaginary Reviewer’s mess is beyond me). I mean, the whole story has been ruined by the IR. The dinosaur character, while presumably added for levity, just looks like the writer is trying to claw back some interest from a story that he has spoiled beyond recognition. The coincidental element of the package arriving the same day a stranger plans a kidnapping is harder to swallow than a razorblade sandwich. All in all, I think the Imaginary Reviewer should be ashamed of himself for the injustice he has done to Splotchy’s story, and viral stories in general.
(The Imaginary Reviewer)
I dropped the printout. I tasted something metallic. I raised my hand to my face. My lip was bleeding, my teeth still sunk into it. I unclenched my jaw, but my whole body was still tense, my forehead damp with sweat. There was no doubt -- the virus had leapt into the metaverse.
There were other signs, too. I had a fast food menu from a Mexican restaurant that inexplicably had an expired airplane ticket to Pensacola printed on the back. I had a travel brochure for the Ukraine with a phone number for a Tom Ely in New Jersey. Even worse, the Ten Commandments statue outside the courthouse in this very town, had an eleventh commandment now -- "I had been shuffling around the house for a few hours and already felt tired."
Was this the intent of the virus creators? I had worked on the project for several years. I was confined to working on twists and causal links, and thus never got the big picture or its overall purpose. I still didn't know. But it seemed evil. It seemed dangerous. Was the virus going to absorb everything, every thought?
How could I stop it? How did it even work?
I emptied my bag of groceries on the counter. First, food in the freezer.
Next, I picked up the black marker and the envelope. I stared hard at them both for several minutes.
I placed the envelope on the counter and uncapped the marker. I deliberately wrote in a tight, cramped style. Before the text I had written had dried, I used the side of my hand to smudge it, rendering much of it unreadable.
I sat down, lit up a cigarette, eyes on the envelope like it was going to sprout legs and walk out. If it were that simple... I stuffed the printout into the envelope. I dropped a loaded .45 into it. I scribbled a note and popped it in as well. "I can fix this," I thought to myself. "I can fix this. I can fix this."
And with these words echoing in my head, over and over, I walked out the door, wandering the streets for several hours. Picking a house at random, I approached and dropped the package at its front door. I rang the doorbell and quickly walked away.
When I got home I headed straight for the refrigerator. I opened up the freezer and pulled out a jar of frozen applesauce.
(Splotchy)
I tag no one, but welcome continuations of this strain of the virus.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Trebly Infected
Holy cow, I have been infected by yet another strain of this crazy virus!
And away we go...
I had been shuffling around the house for a few hours and already felt tired. The doorbell rang. I opened the front door and saw a figure striding away from the house, quickly and purposefully. I looked down and saw a bulky envelope. I picked it up. The handwriting was smudged and cramped, and I could only make out a few words. (Splotchy)
"Meet me at two o'clock at Grisham Square. Don't be late!"
What? I already had an appointment at that time. In fact, that was the only reason I had even taken off work that Wednesday. But, when I saw the photos, I knew I had to go and see what the hell was going on. Oh gosh, now I wish I hadn't, but how was I to know then that Elizabeth would take this whole thing so far?" (Freida Bee)
I saw I had an hour to go to get there so went inside, and grabbed my bag, my video camera, and just to be safe, my new taser gun that my Dad gave me for Christmas. As I drove out of town to Grisham Square, I remembered how all this began. Or should I say, began to go wrong.
Elizabeth was always someone who could talk me into anything. Her mischievous smile and "I dare you" eyes have gotten me in trouble many times before. Now looking at those damn photos, I couldn't help thinking she had done it again!
"Let's go out there," she kept saying. "No one will know," she said running her hand along my waist like she always does, knowing how it melts me. Damn her! Damn her golden brown and oh so soft spankable hide! In the back of my mind, I knew things would come to trouble. They always do with her. I should never have gone with her out to that abandoned prison for that video shoot. With all that time we were there and with all those depraved things we did, I always thought we were alone. Now I know. I was wrong. (M.Yu)
Look, lovin spoofuls of depredation are sometimes only sexy if you think someone is looking on. Proferring a grade. I often wonder if sex was really, really dull before the onset of celluloid pictures, or if it was better thanks to neither partner performing, rather just doing. Who knows? Our grandparents probably just rutted a lot. Though this is something I'd rather not think about.
But our secret was out. And does it matter if it's a secret? What's the purpose of a secret? To hide or to protect? Would I care? I don't want to hide. Protection is another matter altogether. (Jess)
2:15pm.
I stood there, hand in my pocket on the camera, bag at my feet. She was nowhere in sight. The square was clogged with businessmen, street musicians and protesters. How many of them knew our secret, or would know it soon enough? No sign of Elizabeth. She was late.
2:47pm.
I stashed the camera in my bag, pulled out the taser.
3:13pm.
Where was she? I had to wait for her. I couldn't move. I had to stay put. I scanned the crowd fruitlessly. The protesters were making a lot of noise, and some police in riot gear showed up, standing just beyond the perimeter of the square, near a grove of trees.
3:22pm.
I was getting dizzy. I leaned against a lightpole, hand in my pocket clutched around the taser like it was feeding me electrical energy.
I never really knew her. I mean, we were close, we were intimate (sure, sometimes for money, but still). Who was she? What was I expecting would happen? Who was I, for that matter? I felt woozy. I took a deep breath and tried to forget my fatigue.
I chuckled at my deteriorated physical and mental state. Elizabeth would laugh too, if she knew how square, how skittish I had become. Afraid, paranoid, overmedicated. I couldn't climb three stairs without breaking a sweat now.
The protesters started shouting. The police formed a line and took a step into the square.
And then I saw her -- Elizabeth -- fifty yards away -- staring at me, and smiling. She hadn't aged a bit. And she wasn't alone. (Splotchy)
Please continue this virus.
I tag:
Deadspot
McGone
Dale
The Idea Of Progress
Snape
And away we go...
I had been shuffling around the house for a few hours and already felt tired. The doorbell rang. I opened the front door and saw a figure striding away from the house, quickly and purposefully. I looked down and saw a bulky envelope. I picked it up. The handwriting was smudged and cramped, and I could only make out a few words. (Splotchy)
"Meet me at two o'clock at Grisham Square. Don't be late!"
What? I already had an appointment at that time. In fact, that was the only reason I had even taken off work that Wednesday. But, when I saw the photos, I knew I had to go and see what the hell was going on. Oh gosh, now I wish I hadn't, but how was I to know then that Elizabeth would take this whole thing so far?" (Freida Bee)
I saw I had an hour to go to get there so went inside, and grabbed my bag, my video camera, and just to be safe, my new taser gun that my Dad gave me for Christmas. As I drove out of town to Grisham Square, I remembered how all this began. Or should I say, began to go wrong.
Elizabeth was always someone who could talk me into anything. Her mischievous smile and "I dare you" eyes have gotten me in trouble many times before. Now looking at those damn photos, I couldn't help thinking she had done it again!
"Let's go out there," she kept saying. "No one will know," she said running her hand along my waist like she always does, knowing how it melts me. Damn her! Damn her golden brown and oh so soft spankable hide! In the back of my mind, I knew things would come to trouble. They always do with her. I should never have gone with her out to that abandoned prison for that video shoot. With all that time we were there and with all those depraved things we did, I always thought we were alone. Now I know. I was wrong. (M.Yu)
Look, lovin spoofuls of depredation are sometimes only sexy if you think someone is looking on. Proferring a grade. I often wonder if sex was really, really dull before the onset of celluloid pictures, or if it was better thanks to neither partner performing, rather just doing. Who knows? Our grandparents probably just rutted a lot. Though this is something I'd rather not think about.
But our secret was out. And does it matter if it's a secret? What's the purpose of a secret? To hide or to protect? Would I care? I don't want to hide. Protection is another matter altogether. (Jess)
2:15pm.
I stood there, hand in my pocket on the camera, bag at my feet. She was nowhere in sight. The square was clogged with businessmen, street musicians and protesters. How many of them knew our secret, or would know it soon enough? No sign of Elizabeth. She was late.
2:47pm.
I stashed the camera in my bag, pulled out the taser.
3:13pm.
Where was she? I had to wait for her. I couldn't move. I had to stay put. I scanned the crowd fruitlessly. The protesters were making a lot of noise, and some police in riot gear showed up, standing just beyond the perimeter of the square, near a grove of trees.
3:22pm.
I was getting dizzy. I leaned against a lightpole, hand in my pocket clutched around the taser like it was feeding me electrical energy.
I never really knew her. I mean, we were close, we were intimate (sure, sometimes for money, but still). Who was she? What was I expecting would happen? Who was I, for that matter? I felt woozy. I took a deep breath and tried to forget my fatigue.
I chuckled at my deteriorated physical and mental state. Elizabeth would laugh too, if she knew how square, how skittish I had become. Afraid, paranoid, overmedicated. I couldn't climb three stairs without breaking a sweat now.
The protesters started shouting. The police formed a line and took a step into the square.
And then I saw her -- Elizabeth -- fifty yards away -- staring at me, and smiling. She hadn't aged a bit. And she wasn't alone. (Splotchy)
Please continue this virus.
I tag:
Deadspot
McGone
Dale
The Idea Of Progress
Snape
Friday, May 16, 2008
Doubly Infected
A continuation of Story Virus v2.
I have been re-infected by one of my direct infectees.
I had been shuffling around the house for a few hours and already felt tired. The doorbell rang. I opened the front door and saw a figure striding away from the house, quickly and purposefully. I looked down and saw a bulky envelope. I picked it up. The handwriting was smudged and cramped, and I could only make out a few words.
(Splotchy)
I looked up and down the street but didn’t see any delivery truck, or any car for that matter. No FedEx, no UPS , no creepy-looking porno'd-out conversion van with a half-assed delivery service sign taped to its side. Nothing. It's like delivery man just disappeared. I stepped back inside, re-set the deadbolts and took a closer look at the envelope.
Mentally I ran through the checklist of letter bomb warning signs. The handwriting on the envelope, smudged and cramped as it was, was laid out in a tiny, obsessively neat block lettering. It practically screamed recently-de-institutionalized loner with time on his hands. No ticking or whirring sounds, that’s good. No odd smells, no leaks or stains on the package. Check. Weight seemed evenly distributed, that’s good too. I decided to open it.
Inside I found a plane ticket to Pensacola, a business card for a lawyer in Niceville, five crisp $100 bills and a four page handwritten note. Well. This was different. I poured a cup of coffee, threw some meat to the dogs to stop em barking, and sat down to read.
(Bubs)
My addition:
The handwriting of the letter was different than the envelope. It was more rushed, erratic. And it was all in Russian. I could speak a little Russian because of the company I used to keep, but couldn't read it to save my life. I knew some people that could translate for me, but I wasn't about to see them again. Or did one of them write the note? Was it Dimitri the Finger? Petrov? Ivankovich?
I looked at the lawyer's card -- "Tom Ely" -- how whitebread, how American. The address said Niceville, but the phone number's area code was New Jersey. I dialed and waited. My dogs fought over a leftover bone outside, growling.
"Hello, this is Tom Ely, I am sorry I have missed your call..."
I didn't recognize the voice. It had the barest trace of an accent. Most people wouldn't pick up on it. But I did.
The Russians. What was I in for? I hung up.
Was I just going to sit here, waiting? Or was I going to be a good little dog when some person unseen rang my bell?
The ticket was for today. I could make the flight if I left immediately. I packed a bag and caught a cab to the airport.
(Splotchy)
Please continue this story virus.
I tag:
Tim
SamuraiFrog
Some Guy
Cowboy the Cat
Manx
Lulu
Doc
PJ
I have been re-infected by one of my direct infectees.
I had been shuffling around the house for a few hours and already felt tired. The doorbell rang. I opened the front door and saw a figure striding away from the house, quickly and purposefully. I looked down and saw a bulky envelope. I picked it up. The handwriting was smudged and cramped, and I could only make out a few words.
(Splotchy)
I looked up and down the street but didn’t see any delivery truck, or any car for that matter. No FedEx, no UPS , no creepy-looking porno'd-out conversion van with a half-assed delivery service sign taped to its side. Nothing. It's like delivery man just disappeared. I stepped back inside, re-set the deadbolts and took a closer look at the envelope.
Mentally I ran through the checklist of letter bomb warning signs. The handwriting on the envelope, smudged and cramped as it was, was laid out in a tiny, obsessively neat block lettering. It practically screamed recently-de-institutionalized loner with time on his hands. No ticking or whirring sounds, that’s good. No odd smells, no leaks or stains on the package. Check. Weight seemed evenly distributed, that’s good too. I decided to open it.
Inside I found a plane ticket to Pensacola, a business card for a lawyer in Niceville, five crisp $100 bills and a four page handwritten note. Well. This was different. I poured a cup of coffee, threw some meat to the dogs to stop em barking, and sat down to read.
(Bubs)
My addition:
The handwriting of the letter was different than the envelope. It was more rushed, erratic. And it was all in Russian. I could speak a little Russian because of the company I used to keep, but couldn't read it to save my life. I knew some people that could translate for me, but I wasn't about to see them again. Or did one of them write the note? Was it Dimitri the Finger? Petrov? Ivankovich?
I looked at the lawyer's card -- "Tom Ely" -- how whitebread, how American. The address said Niceville, but the phone number's area code was New Jersey. I dialed and waited. My dogs fought over a leftover bone outside, growling.
"Hello, this is Tom Ely, I am sorry I have missed your call..."
I didn't recognize the voice. It had the barest trace of an accent. Most people wouldn't pick up on it. But I did.
The Russians. What was I in for? I hung up.
Was I just going to sit here, waiting? Or was I going to be a good little dog when some person unseen rang my bell?
The ticket was for today. I could make the flight if I left immediately. I packed a bag and caught a cab to the airport.
(Splotchy)
Please continue this story virus.
I tag:
Tim
SamuraiFrog
Some Guy
Cowboy the Cat
Manx
Lulu
Doc
PJ
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Another Day, Another Virus
It was last winter when the story virus first hit this blog.
I am afraid to say with the warming weather I have not been paying attention to my health. Consequently, I have been stricken with another one of those insidious bugs.
For those unfamiliar with a story virus, here's a recap:
There always has to be a start of a story, so here it is.
***
I had been shuffling around the house for a few hours and already felt tired. The doorbell rang. I opened the front door and saw a figure striding away from the house, quickly and purposefully. I looked down and saw a bulky envelope. I picked it up. The handwriting was smudged and cramped, and I could only make out a few words.
***
Please continue this story virus.
I tag:
Gifted Typist
FranIAm
Freida Bee
Becca
Dr MVM
Bubs
The folks at ultra-mundane
Rider
p0nk
Vikkitikkitavi
Patrick
I am afraid to say with the warming weather I have not been paying attention to my health. Consequently, I have been stricken with another one of those insidious bugs.
For those unfamiliar with a story virus, here's a recap:
Here's what I would like to do. I want to create a story that branches out in a variety of different, unexpected ways. I don't know how realistic it is, but that's what I'm aiming for. Hopefully, at least one thread of the story can make a decent number of hops before it dies out.
If you are one of the carriers of this story virus (i.e. you have been tagged and choose to contribute to it), you will have one responsibility, in addition to contributing your own piece of the story: you will have to tag at least one person that continues your story thread. So, say you tag five people. If four people decide to not participate, it's okay, as long as the fifth one does. And if all five participate, well that's five interesting threads the story spins off into.
Not a requirement, but something your readers would appreciate: to help people trace your own particular thread of the narrative, it will be helpful if you include links to the chapters preceding yours.
There always has to be a start of a story, so here it is.
***
I had been shuffling around the house for a few hours and already felt tired. The doorbell rang. I opened the front door and saw a figure striding away from the house, quickly and purposefully. I looked down and saw a bulky envelope. I picked it up. The handwriting was smudged and cramped, and I could only make out a few words.
***
Please continue this story virus.
I tag:
Gifted Typist
FranIAm
Freida Bee
Becca
Dr MVM
Bubs
The folks at ultra-mundane
Rider
p0nk
Vikkitikkitavi
Patrick
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Virus, Virus, Who's Got The Virus
Evil Evil Genius has been infected by the story virus!
He attempts to kill the damn thing once and for all, ties up threads, etc.
He attempts to kill the damn thing once and for all, ties up threads, etc.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Remembering The Infected
To the best of my knowledge, the story virus which originated on this blog back in early December 2007 has been isolated and eradicated.
Let's take a moment to remember those who were stricken with it. If I have missed you, please let me know and I'll add you to the memorial.
December 5, 2007
Splotchy
FranIAm
December 6, 2007
SamuraiFrog
Chris
Jess
Commander Other
Ed
Flannery Alden
J.D.
GETkristiLOVE
Dr. Monkey Von Monkerstein
Comrade Kevin
December 7, 2007
Freida Bee
Doctor Zaius
BAC
NotSoccer Mom
Dcup
Cooper Green
Jan
Wyldth1ng
Write Procrastinator
December 8, 2007
Mathman
Boxer Rebel
Randal Graves
Yoshick
Golf Widow
Snave
Jen
Whiskeymarie
Morse
Shazza
Infinity Squared
December 9, 2007
Becca
Bitty
The Cunning Runt
konagod
Roma
Candace
O' Tim
Fairlane
Sherry
Bubs
December 10, 2007
Waveflux
PJ
Madame X
The Cunning Runt
Frutal Zeitgeist
johnnybacardi
Splotchy
Phydeaux
Dguzman
Distributorcap
Wyldth1ng
Jen
CDP
TwistedNoodle
December 11, 2007
BlueGal
Escape Brooklyn
Jon
Jean-Luc Picard
Kitty
Pooks
Liberality
Cowboy The Cat
December 12, 2007
Serina Hope
Maya's Granny
Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar
McGone
JustMe63
Brave Sir Robin
Novy
Travel Gretta
December 13, 2007
Mathman
Amanda
Joe The Troll
Miz UV
Eric
Natsthename
Captain Incredible
December 14, 2007
J
Glenn
Kyklops
Absolute Vanilla
Mauigirl
December 23, 2007
Blockade Boy
December 25, 2007
John
December 27, 2007
Professor Xavier
Vegeta
December 28, 2007
Ray
Henchman432
January 16, 2008
Evil Evil Genius
Let's take a moment to remember those who were stricken with it. If I have missed you, please let me know and I'll add you to the memorial.
December 5, 2007
Splotchy
FranIAm
December 6, 2007
SamuraiFrog
Chris
Jess
Commander Other
Ed
Flannery Alden
J.D.
GETkristiLOVE
Dr. Monkey Von Monkerstein
Comrade Kevin
December 7, 2007
Freida Bee
Doctor Zaius
BAC
NotSoccer Mom
Dcup
Cooper Green
Jan
Wyldth1ng
Write Procrastinator
December 8, 2007
Mathman
Boxer Rebel
Randal Graves
Yoshick
Golf Widow
Snave
Jen
Whiskeymarie
Morse
Shazza
Infinity Squared
December 9, 2007
Becca
Bitty
The Cunning Runt
konagod
Roma
Candace
O' Tim
Fairlane
Sherry
Bubs
December 10, 2007
Waveflux
PJ
Madame X
The Cunning Runt
Frutal Zeitgeist
johnnybacardi
Splotchy
Phydeaux
Dguzman
Distributorcap
Wyldth1ng
Jen
CDP
TwistedNoodle
December 11, 2007
BlueGal
Escape Brooklyn
Jon
Jean-Luc Picard
Kitty
Pooks
Liberality
Cowboy The Cat
December 12, 2007
Serina Hope
Maya's Granny
Tom "The Pooklekufr" Treloar
McGone
JustMe63
Brave Sir Robin
Novy
Travel Gretta
December 13, 2007
Mathman
Amanda
Joe The Troll
Miz UV
Eric
Natsthename
Captain Incredible
December 14, 2007
J
Glenn
Kyklops
Absolute Vanilla
Mauigirl
December 23, 2007
Blockade Boy
December 25, 2007
John
December 27, 2007
Professor Xavier
Vegeta
December 28, 2007
Ray
Henchman432
January 16, 2008
Evil Evil Genius
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
What Are You Doing Here?!!!
Shouldn't you be here?
Or do you not want to be AMAZED?
Damn, damn, damn. That's all I have to say.
DAMN.
Or do you not want to be AMAZED?
Damn, damn, damn. That's all I have to say.
DAMN.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Infected
I've been infected by a virus I released - a mutant strain from Wyldth1ng.
Here's the basic info, and the story up to this point.
"This has probably been done before, but that is not stopping me, oh no.Here's what I would like to do. I want to create a story that branches out in a variety of different, unexpected ways. I don't know how realistic it is, but that's what I'm aiming for. Hopefully, at least one thread of the story can make a decent number of hops before it dies out.If you are one of the carriers of this story virus (i.e. you have been tagged and choose to contribute to it), you will have one responsibility, in addition to contributing your own piece of the story: you will have to tag at least one person that continues your story thread. So, say you tag five people. If four people decide to not participate, it's okay, as long as the fifth one does. And if all five participate, well that's five interesting threads the story spins off into.Not a requirement, but something your readers would appreciate: to help people trace your own particular thread of the narrative, it will be helpful if you include links to the chapters preceding yours."
I woke up hungry. I pulled my bedroom curtain to the side and looked out on a hazy morning. I dragged myself into the kitchen, in search of something to eat. I reached for a jar of applesauce sitting next to the sink, and found it very cold to the touch. I opened the jar and realized it was frozen. (Splotchy)
I was used to the house being quite cold in the mornings, as the night log usually burns out around one AM when I am dreaming cozily under my covers, not normally waking to put a new one on until morning. I was surprised because on the rare occasions that it actually had reached sub-freezing temperatures in the house, I had awakened in the night to restart the fire. I would have been worried about the pipes before P-Day, but there hadn’t been running water in two years and that was one of the few advantages to being dependent on rainwater, no pipes. (Freida Bee)
I rummaged around in the kitchen and found one of the few things that hadn't frozen overnight to eat- an expired granola bar. "Better than nothing", I muttered to myself as I tore off the wrapper and took a bite, trying to not chip a tooth in the process.I thought I should go out to the shed and bring in more wood. The mind-numbing cold snap that had set in over the last few days seemed to be in no hurry to leave. Pulling on my heavy coat and wool hat, I considered for a moment what lay ahead for the day. Normally I would spend much of the day making any needed repairs to the house, cleaning, reading various newsletters, cooking, and just trying to keep busy in general. With no job to fill my time anymore I have found my new found "freedom" to be both a blessing and a curse. Ever since P-day, the only job most of us have is to sit in our homes and find something, anything, to pass the time.Well, that- and to stay alive. (Whiskeymarie)
I reached the woodshed I’d built from the remains of our fence, and heard a rustling. Fearing one of the wild dogs that now roamed the neighborhood, I crept back to the house for the gun my husband left with me before he volunteered to join the fighting. My hand was shaking so badly, I didn’t think I could pull a trigger, so I also grabbed an old broomstick to use as a club. My son tried to follow me, and I ordered him back inside; he obeyed, frightened by the harshness of my tone. He seemed not to sense how terrified I was and I was glad. Inching toward the shed, glancing backward every few steps to be sure the children were staying inside, I heard the rustle again, accompanied by a very human cough.
“Who is it?” I shouted, in as angry and menacing a voice as I could muster. No response.
“Damn it, I know you’re in there! I have a gun! Come out with your hands up, or I’ll just start shooting!”
“Don’t shoot!” said the voice, and...
(CDP)
I woke up hungry. The room was white, small and seemed to not have any doors. That is when I realized I was naked. I had a thin sheet of plastic over me and some machine making beeping noises to my left.
I started to rise up that is when I noticed the cuffs holding me to the bed. I started to scream.
A large booming voice came over a loud speaker, "Calm down, calm down Mrs. Peabody."
I bellowed out, "Who are you?! Why am I chained down?! Where are my children?! "
The voice replied, " There has been an accident, everything will be fine. There will be someone to assist and answer your questions shortly."
Then there was silence. I yelled some more but nothing. No response. Then suddenly, a creaking sound. To the right there was a door opening, it was......
(Wyldth1ng)
A cat. A small black cat padded gently in and hopped on the bed. It paused to look at me and let out a sorrowful moan. As it crept toward my face I looked into its strangely unsettling eyes.
"Down, Scheiser," a man's voice spoke.
A sullen, shambling figure entered the room. His right hand was bandaged, part of it soaked through with blood.
"Hello, Mrs. Peabody." He pulled up a chair. "Sit, Scheiser."
The cat curled up on the man's feet. The man stared past me, resigned, distracted.
"Where is my family?!!" I moved my leg to kick at the man, only inches from me, but restraints dug into my ankles.
Without turning to address me, the man spoke, in words that seemed memorized and repeated a hundred times before -- "Your family is safe. As safe as any of us can be. I would let you go see them right now if I could, Mrs. Peabody. But you and I are linked."
"I don't know what you're talking about!"
"Applesauce. Cold. What do you really know about what your people call, P-Day, Mrs. Peabody? It is starting again."
(Splotchy)
I tag:
Lulu
Cowboy The Cat
Barbara
McGone
Manx
Tim
If I haven't tagged you, please feel free to continue it as well, just leave a comment indicating you're doing so.
There was some possible intermingling of this virus with another one here. To what extent cross-pollination has occurred, I leave that to people continuing the story.
Here's the basic info, and the story up to this point.
"This has probably been done before, but that is not stopping me, oh no.Here's what I would like to do. I want to create a story that branches out in a variety of different, unexpected ways. I don't know how realistic it is, but that's what I'm aiming for. Hopefully, at least one thread of the story can make a decent number of hops before it dies out.If you are one of the carriers of this story virus (i.e. you have been tagged and choose to contribute to it), you will have one responsibility, in addition to contributing your own piece of the story: you will have to tag at least one person that continues your story thread. So, say you tag five people. If four people decide to not participate, it's okay, as long as the fifth one does. And if all five participate, well that's five interesting threads the story spins off into.Not a requirement, but something your readers would appreciate: to help people trace your own particular thread of the narrative, it will be helpful if you include links to the chapters preceding yours."
I woke up hungry. I pulled my bedroom curtain to the side and looked out on a hazy morning. I dragged myself into the kitchen, in search of something to eat. I reached for a jar of applesauce sitting next to the sink, and found it very cold to the touch. I opened the jar and realized it was frozen. (Splotchy)
I was used to the house being quite cold in the mornings, as the night log usually burns out around one AM when I am dreaming cozily under my covers, not normally waking to put a new one on until morning. I was surprised because on the rare occasions that it actually had reached sub-freezing temperatures in the house, I had awakened in the night to restart the fire. I would have been worried about the pipes before P-Day, but there hadn’t been running water in two years and that was one of the few advantages to being dependent on rainwater, no pipes. (Freida Bee)
I rummaged around in the kitchen and found one of the few things that hadn't frozen overnight to eat- an expired granola bar. "Better than nothing", I muttered to myself as I tore off the wrapper and took a bite, trying to not chip a tooth in the process.I thought I should go out to the shed and bring in more wood. The mind-numbing cold snap that had set in over the last few days seemed to be in no hurry to leave. Pulling on my heavy coat and wool hat, I considered for a moment what lay ahead for the day. Normally I would spend much of the day making any needed repairs to the house, cleaning, reading various newsletters, cooking, and just trying to keep busy in general. With no job to fill my time anymore I have found my new found "freedom" to be both a blessing and a curse. Ever since P-day, the only job most of us have is to sit in our homes and find something, anything, to pass the time.Well, that- and to stay alive. (Whiskeymarie)
I reached the woodshed I’d built from the remains of our fence, and heard a rustling. Fearing one of the wild dogs that now roamed the neighborhood, I crept back to the house for the gun my husband left with me before he volunteered to join the fighting. My hand was shaking so badly, I didn’t think I could pull a trigger, so I also grabbed an old broomstick to use as a club. My son tried to follow me, and I ordered him back inside; he obeyed, frightened by the harshness of my tone. He seemed not to sense how terrified I was and I was glad. Inching toward the shed, glancing backward every few steps to be sure the children were staying inside, I heard the rustle again, accompanied by a very human cough.
“Who is it?” I shouted, in as angry and menacing a voice as I could muster. No response.
“Damn it, I know you’re in there! I have a gun! Come out with your hands up, or I’ll just start shooting!”
“Don’t shoot!” said the voice, and...
(CDP)
I woke up hungry. The room was white, small and seemed to not have any doors. That is when I realized I was naked. I had a thin sheet of plastic over me and some machine making beeping noises to my left.
I started to rise up that is when I noticed the cuffs holding me to the bed. I started to scream.
A large booming voice came over a loud speaker, "Calm down, calm down Mrs. Peabody."
I bellowed out, "Who are you?! Why am I chained down?! Where are my children?! "
The voice replied, " There has been an accident, everything will be fine. There will be someone to assist and answer your questions shortly."
Then there was silence. I yelled some more but nothing. No response. Then suddenly, a creaking sound. To the right there was a door opening, it was......
(Wyldth1ng)
A cat. A small black cat padded gently in and hopped on the bed. It paused to look at me and let out a sorrowful moan. As it crept toward my face I looked into its strangely unsettling eyes.
"Down, Scheiser," a man's voice spoke.
A sullen, shambling figure entered the room. His right hand was bandaged, part of it soaked through with blood.
"Hello, Mrs. Peabody." He pulled up a chair. "Sit, Scheiser."
The cat curled up on the man's feet. The man stared past me, resigned, distracted.
"Where is my family?!!" I moved my leg to kick at the man, only inches from me, but restraints dug into my ankles.
Without turning to address me, the man spoke, in words that seemed memorized and repeated a hundred times before -- "Your family is safe. As safe as any of us can be. I would let you go see them right now if I could, Mrs. Peabody. But you and I are linked."
"I don't know what you're talking about!"
"Applesauce. Cold. What do you really know about what your people call, P-Day, Mrs. Peabody? It is starting again."
(Splotchy)
I tag:
Lulu
Cowboy The Cat
Barbara
McGone
Manx
Tim
If I haven't tagged you, please feel free to continue it as well, just leave a comment indicating you're doing so.
There was some possible intermingling of this virus with another one here. To what extent cross-pollination has occurred, I leave that to people continuing the story.
Sunday, December 9, 2007
Viruses Are Easier To Spread Than To Document
I started trying to diagram the story virus, but it's no easy task.
My main stumbling block at this point is just rendering the relationships via an image I'm creating in Paint Shop Pro 10. It became painfully obvious to me that I need some sort of computer program in which I can input relationships, and have the program sort out how to graphically represent the relationships. I might have the skillset necessary to write such a program, but I'm lazy.
Even if I had such a program, the image it would generate would likely be incredibly, wackily complicated.
From the different main threads of the people I have tagged, the one continued by SamuraiFrog seemed to be one of the less active ones (mostly due to the fact that only the Chris subbranch seemed to be thriving), so I thought I would try and document it first. As you can see from the diagram, it's still pretty damned busy.
Click for a larger image
I could choose to diagram only the people that were successfully infected, but I think it misses some of the point when you aren't able to see who *didn't* get infected.
So, for now, I give up on my graphic representation. If anyone wants to take a whack at it (I saw Tom postulating some possible alternatives to a "tree" representation in a comment on an earlier post), by all means give it a try. But please don't put a lot of effort into it, as I don't want to be responsible for anyone's eyes bleeding or head exploding.
I'm still trying to follow all the story threads, leaving comments and such, but it's a crazy, gloriously diseased world out there.
My main stumbling block at this point is just rendering the relationships via an image I'm creating in Paint Shop Pro 10. It became painfully obvious to me that I need some sort of computer program in which I can input relationships, and have the program sort out how to graphically represent the relationships. I might have the skillset necessary to write such a program, but I'm lazy.
Even if I had such a program, the image it would generate would likely be incredibly, wackily complicated.
From the different main threads of the people I have tagged, the one continued by SamuraiFrog seemed to be one of the less active ones (mostly due to the fact that only the Chris subbranch seemed to be thriving), so I thought I would try and document it first. As you can see from the diagram, it's still pretty damned busy.
Click for a larger image
I could choose to diagram only the people that were successfully infected, but I think it misses some of the point when you aren't able to see who *didn't* get infected.
So, for now, I give up on my graphic representation. If anyone wants to take a whack at it (I saw Tom postulating some possible alternatives to a "tree" representation in a comment on an earlier post), by all means give it a try. But please don't put a lot of effort into it, as I don't want to be responsible for anyone's eyes bleeding or head exploding.
I'm still trying to follow all the story threads, leaving comments and such, but it's a crazy, gloriously diseased world out there.
Saturday, December 8, 2007
How Widespread Is The Infection?
How widespread is the infection of the story virus?
It has definitely gone farther than I thought it would.
I wish I was a scientist, a statistician, adept at graphic arts, something, so I can say something other than, "Wow! It's pretty cool how it's spreading!".
It was interesting when it first started, in that some people were tagged multiple times by different story threads, probably due to the blogominisphere I travel in. There are a relatively small number of people that read my blog and whose blogs I read, so it's not a surprise we sometimes tagged each other more than once. But now, the virus has definitely leapt out of that blogominisphere and into other blogominispheres, one's I have never been exposed to.
This seems to be a pretty robust meme. When someone gets tagged and then contributes a piece of story to a particular thread, the contributor has a self-interest in propagating the story with their addition -- and they want to see it thrive. In some ways, this meme really does function as a virus, as an organism that seeks to propagate itself.
Again, I wish I was a scientist or something, I'd probably have a lot cooler things to say, and more interesting parallels to draw.
I'm going to try my best to graphically represent how the various threads have traveled thus far, but if the virus continues to spread, it might be difficult.
If anyone has any recommendations as to how to represent the story virus (I was thinking of a family tree kinda diagram), please recommend one.
Thanks to everyone who has been infected. I'm making an effort to follow all the strains!
P.S. I think in coining the term "blogominisphere" I believe I have ratcheted up the obnoxiousness of the word "blog", something I did not think was possible.
It has definitely gone farther than I thought it would.
I wish I was a scientist, a statistician, adept at graphic arts, something, so I can say something other than, "Wow! It's pretty cool how it's spreading!".
It was interesting when it first started, in that some people were tagged multiple times by different story threads, probably due to the blogominisphere I travel in. There are a relatively small number of people that read my blog and whose blogs I read, so it's not a surprise we sometimes tagged each other more than once. But now, the virus has definitely leapt out of that blogominisphere and into other blogominispheres, one's I have never been exposed to.
This seems to be a pretty robust meme. When someone gets tagged and then contributes a piece of story to a particular thread, the contributor has a self-interest in propagating the story with their addition -- and they want to see it thrive. In some ways, this meme really does function as a virus, as an organism that seeks to propagate itself.
Again, I wish I was a scientist or something, I'd probably have a lot cooler things to say, and more interesting parallels to draw.
I'm going to try my best to graphically represent how the various threads have traveled thus far, but if the virus continues to spread, it might be difficult.
If anyone has any recommendations as to how to represent the story virus (I was thinking of a family tree kinda diagram), please recommend one.
Thanks to everyone who has been infected. I'm making an effort to follow all the strains!
P.S. I think in coining the term "blogominisphere" I believe I have ratcheted up the obnoxiousness of the word "blog", something I did not think was possible.
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