Extemporaneous writing exercise/game. [Archive] - Glock Talk


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05-05-2007, 14:08
Well, no, it's not really a game, but it can be fun and good practice.

The way it works is, one poster leaves a scenario for the next (and only the next) poster to write one paragraph about. This paragraph does not have to be one that would be at the start of a story; it could be a paragraph that might be in the middle of a narrative.

Then, when this poster has written his/her paragraph, he or she comes up with a new scenario for the next poster to write a paragraph about. In this way, each writer pretty much has to write extemporaneously, using only the scenario left by the previous poster.

I'll start it off:

Driving alone at night on a rural highway, you hear an unusual noise coming from the rear of your car, perhaps a tire going bad. You stop and get out to check it out, and as you're looking over your rear tires you notice in the moonlit darkness an incredibly old, white haired man dressed in a snow white suit walking along the shoulder of the opposite side of the road.

05-05-2007, 22:37
"I say, old man," said the elderly gentleman in the spotless white cavalry twill suit. "You'll think me dotty, mayhap. But I'm looking for my wife, Lady Arbuthnot," he continued in a plummy, Etonian drawl. "She sometimes . . . um, wanders. Last time, she got herself into the boot of a fellow's phaeton. Thought it a rumble seat, apparently. Devil of an embarrassment. Er, Would it be at all possible to look in your machine's . . . trunk, I believe it's called here?"

Assuring the old gentleman he may look in your trunk, and that indeed you had heard a noise from the car's rear before, you notice the old gentleman is an albino, with colorless lips and pink eyes.

You bend to unlock the trunk with the pushbutton on your key, hearing the old man's astonished gasp when it opens with a loud click, untouched by you.

Inside the trunk, wrapped in black velvet is an object. It is revealed to be an alabaster white statuette of a raven.

"Ah, yes - she's been here," the old man says. "This is one of her favorites. She'd not leave IT at home unloved."

You notice one of the raven's carved eyesockets is empty. But in the other is a large, lozenge-shaped pink diamond.

"Oh, dear," the white-suited man says. "This can only mean one thing."

05-06-2007, 11:37
Well, I asked for that, now didn't I?

Seriously, very good.

You didn't, though, leave a scenario for the next traveler.

05-06-2007, 14:53
Oh. Well, then - oops, damn. Misread. Thought the idea was to leave room in the same mise-en-scene for someone else to continue that story. Okay, how 'bout . . .

You're a New York drama critic. It's a dark and stormy night (why not?) at the Orpheum. You've been given an overlooking box seat by the management. On stage, a black-clad, but noticeably rotund Hamlet has just finished the "To be or not to be" soliloquy. A previously-unnoticed seatmate, sitting in a dark corner of the box, mutters fiercely, "Out 'pon it! 'Tis not meant to be played so. The oaf gives no accentuation to the one line that portends the whole play!" Turning, you notice the man, balding with a little goatee and English mustache, is in Elizabethan play costume. But before you can speak, the fellow hurridly starts to leave. In a loud whisper, clearly audible to the stage, you ask hoarsely "The line! WHICH line do you mean?"

05-06-2007, 22:30
I'll have to leave that one for someone else, since I don't know a merry thing about New York theater and am almost as ignorant of Shakespeare.

05-07-2007, 01:20
Originally posted by waltlb
Oh. Well, then - oops, damn. Misread. Thought the idea was to leave room in the same mise-en-scene for someone else to continue that story. Okay, how 'bout . . .

You're a New York drama critic. It's a dark and stormy night (why not?) at the Orpheum. . .

The man, clearly flustered, continues out the rear of the box. I sheepishly turn my head back towards stage; my perplexity continues. By now, a far from fair Ophelia has joined Hamlet in conversation, "Good my lord, how does your honor for for this many a day?" My head swells with curiosity. Who was this man? He was no theater critic, I would have recognized him. Just then, a beam of light flashes across the the box. Looking back for the source of the light, I spot an usher motioning for me.

Leaving my seat, I walk back towards the usher. He grabs my arm and pulls me back into the hallway. "What do you think you are doing?" he whispers. "I... well... there was this man and..." "What man?!" the usher exclaims, tightening his grip on my arm. "The... balding man in the Elizabethan costume. He had a goatee and looked..."
"Look!" whispered the usher, again cutting me off "I will not permit rude patrons to interrupt our productions." With clenched teeth, I whisper "But the man, he interrupted, not me... Don't you know who I am?"

You are on a hike with your dog along the Appalachian trail. It's mid summer. The sun has just gone down over the horizon and you stop to make camp for the night. As you are setting up your tent, your dog begins to bark. Looking up, you see a small, black-bear cub crawl into your open backpack.

05-08-2007, 18:21
Waitaminute, you think, rubbing your eyes. There's stuff in that backpack. No room for a pretty sizeable bear cub. He must be behind the pack, in that little depression by the big rock. Well, now. Opportunity at last. At $10,000 for a full-grown black bear's gall bladder in Tokyo, even a small one . . . this is the first thing that's gone right since I tried to knock over that bank, shot the guard, and had to run for the woods with nothing but my tent and rifle, you reckon.

Chambering a meat round in your .450 Marlin, you start to bring the stock to your cheek. Suddenly, though, the little bear jumps up - and rips off its own head!

Or so it seems. Shocked, you realize it's a Little Person. Wearing a National Park Ranger uniform, you see plainly, as he unzips the bear costume.

"Drop it, Sluggo, and put 'em up high" he says, almost laconically.

But you notice he has no weapon.

Just as you begin to shoulder the big Marlin, you feel, rather than see the red laser dot on your forehead.

And you realize you don't have to worry about how the hell you're ever going to get to Tokyo, anymore.


You're close to your Ph.D in Philosophy. Your major advisor, before whom you will have to defend your dissertation, is very hedonistic in outlook, believing, like the Cyrenaics, that pleasure in this life is the supreme good. He has assigned you to write on the question, "if you could have any and all the women you desired for the rest of your life, but had to give up the one woman you have a deep affection for, would you?" Knowing your advisor's philosophical bent, you write affirmatively your would choose the libertine course, albeit feeling a little guilty about it, and don't tell your fiance, Fiona, who you love madly (and who, you understand, has wealth and connections).

After defending your paper, apparently successfully (but before you get your doctorate) you are standing with your advisor outside the department. Your fiance walks up, hugs the professor and laughingly says "Why, what a suprise to see you here . . . . ."