Friday, December 7, 2007

The Story Goes On and On and On...

WP tagged me, and, I like this tag.


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.So, here goes:

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)

My first idea was to put the applesauce in the microwave. Hey, I was still tired. Could I scoop some out and put whipped cream on it? No, too solid. Why was it so damn cold in here? I walked over to the thermostat and saw that the heat hadn't clicked on all night and the temperature had dropped substantially overnight. Now, tired and hungry, I opened the access panel on the heater. There's the problem: why was someone cooking a duck in here? (SamuraiFrog)

I bent down and scooped up the uncooked duck carcass. There was no way I was going to let it go to waste, especially considering I had applesauce on hand. I placed it in a roasting pot and went back to reset the heater. As I continued to wake up, I realized that my roommate had spent the night at his girlfriend's place and couldn't have put the duck there. "How the hell did it get there?" I wondered. Just then, an already odd situation became even stranger. The lifeless duck animated, flapped its featherless wings, and began to speak. (Some Guy)

"Zal-pinga, zal-pinga, zow-zow-zow! I am the ghost of unrequited meals and you will be haunted by three more meals, tonight!"I folded my arms, my face and body language conveyed equal parts doubt and skepticism.

"What?" asked the duck."Shouldn't you be an ex-business partner or friend of mine that has passed away?"

"What?""Marley, you know, you should be like Marley."


"What are you going on about? I am not a reggae duck."

"No, if this is anything like the story, you shouldn't be a duck, you should be someone just like Jacob Marley...I don't know, maybe, uh, Dwight Holstein."

"He's too busy haunting Louise Barret, because she stood him up on prom night. At any rate, tonight, you will be visited by three meals."

"But why do meals walk the earth and why do they come to me?"

"Will you shut up already? I am freezing walking around here, with nary a stitch of clothing or plumage-"

"And why should you be cold, you are dead already?""And why do you think we ghosts are moaning all the time? It's bad enough being dead, but...you are getting my sidetracked! Tonight, you will be visited by three meals!" (Write Procrastinator)



"Three meals? Visited by three meals? Is that what you are saying?"

The duck glared at me while wrapping my best kitchen towel around his plucked body for warmth. "You don't listen so good, do you? Watch my beak and I'll say it slowly. T-h-r-e-e meals. The belches and gas of meals past, the taste of meals present and the dreams of meals future. Got it?"

I tried to focus, wondering if this was indeed a plucked duck wrapped in my Williams-Sonoma cotton dishtowel, now puffing on one of my hidden cigarettes, telling me of the ghosts of three meals that would come to visit, or, if that blotter acid I took back in '89 really did cause flashbacks.

"When your kitchen timer clicks off 60 minutes, the first ghost will appear." he continued. "I'd suggest you lock your doors, you really don't want guests tonight...the first one may be...unpleasant."

While he spoke, I realised I kept referring to him as a him, and from the drape of the dishtowel, the struggle to keep it under the wings, over that plump, juicy breast meat...he was a she... and I hadn't eaten... yet. ~Quin



Tagged are: GolfWidow, Bee, Loo, Peter and Greg

9 comments:

golfwidow said...

Oh, FMD and BMB. I commented on the wrong post.

Quin said...

well, fix it.

Quin said...

golfwidow said...
Quin - I can't do this tag unless I end the story, because I refuse to tag anyone else.

Valley Girl said...

Woah.

Writeprocrastinator said...

"You don't listen so good, do you? Watch my beak and I'll say it slowly. T-h-r-e-e meals. The belches and gas of meals past, the taste of meals present and the dreams of meals future. Got it?"


Now, see, that just made me jealous of your prose, I'll never tag you again ; )

golfwidow said...

I couldn't resist. I did it.

But I didn't tag anyone, and I finished the story right there.

http://www.golfwidow.net/archives/012126.html

Quin said...

ha! i knew you'd do it, and i'm so happy!

wp~piffle. go to golf's if you want prose to knock your socks off.

vg~follow the story

Peter Varvel said...

That was extremely entertaining, but WHEW! glad Golfwidow stepped up, before my lazy ass could even ponder the . . . what was I talking about?

Bubs said...

Love it!

"...he was a she...and I hadn't eaten...yet."

Brilliant