Alrighty, let’s play a little game. 🙂
I’ve written up the beginning of a story, here. I challenge every person that reads this post to create their own addition to it. Sort of like the game, “Never Ending Story.” But, I have a few rules.
- Each post may only be one paragraph (if there’s dialogue, use your own descretion.) Don’t hog the story.
- Absolutely NO swearing, or inappropriate/offensive posts.
- You must change something in the story, you cannot just write more of what I, or the previous writer already have written. Add or eliminate a character, a problem, etc.
- You may only post once.
- I will allow a maximum of twenty additional posts, so pay close attention to how much more you can/should add to the story.
- The last person to post (whoever finishes the story) must think of a title for the whole story.
- Let your voice shine through in your writing, don’t try too hard to make every little detail perfect, but don’t write something boring, either!
- Last, but not least: Have fun!
And We Begin…
He was a man who seemed tall in stature, but I soon recognized it as a deception of my vision, ascribed to the fact that he was very slightly built. He couldn’t have more than two inches on me, at 5’6″. I came close enough to observe the deep wrinkles embedded into his forehead, when my train of thought was interrupted.
“You here for the interview?” the man asked, guardedly.
“Are you Oberon Nathanahel?” I replied.
“Call me Ron,” he said in a more friendly tone, “and come on in.”
He lead me up two flights of stairs, and down a hallway, we turned at the fourth door on the left.
I stepped into his small apartment, he obviously lived alone. His 10′ x 12′ box of a living room only had a dingy couch, and coffee table, with a large television hanging on the wall across from them. I saw a door leading into what looked to be the smallest bathroom I’d ever seen. A 3′ x 3′ shower, a toilet, and a sink were all lined up against a wall, with barely a foot of open space on the opposite side. Adjacent to the lavatory was a little niche of a kitchen, consisting only of the sink, a mini fridge and a microwave oven, one you’d expect to see in an appliance catalogue from the 1950s. I wondered if it could possibly be operable.
My pondering ceased again, when Ron cleared his throat, “You’re welcome to take a seat.” He gestured toward the couch. I reminded myself to stay on task as I walked toward his worn sofa and plopped down onto it. Ron sat on the opposite side. I turned to him.
“So when did you first notice these… occurrences?” I began.