Saturday, June 28, 2008

Lightning Write

So I'm at the Codex Writers Workshop, and besides the serious critiques of stories and novels, we're also playing writing games. One of them is called Lightening Write.

Basically, you take a bunch of writers, about seven or eight, and everyone starts with a blank piece of paper. You get two minutes to write a first sentence, and then everyone passes their piece of paper to the next person. You then get two more minutes to add onto the story, and then the papers get passed again. You go around in a circle and pass papers until it eventually gets back to you. Then, you finish the story, and everyone reads them out loud. They're usually hilarious, and thus, for your writing amusement, I present the story that I started last night. It's bolded to distinguish it from the rest of the blog post.

"The Satellite Dish"

Evan wanted a wife who could knit him a sock, slaughter a hog, and construct her own satellite dish.

Unfortunately, he married a satellite dish by mistake. It couldn't knit a sock or slaughter a hog. Nor even knit a hog or slaughter a sock. All it could do was get 42 channels.

Evan spent a whole day hooking up his dish to his ex-wife's TV--after the wedding night, of course. It was a funny wedding night, but he was pretty sure he had made the dish happy.

Having hooked up his new wife, Evan settled in to see what she could do. At first he was impressed. She seemed to have knowledge in quite a number of areas, and if she was sometimes shallow, at least she rarely lacked for something to contribute to the conversation.

Loneliness was rarely a problem for Evan these days, but he was forced to admit that his wife was a less-than-ideal golf companion. He decided to try bowling with her instead.

At the lane, she'd bowled a 267. It was the first time she'd ever touched a ball.

It was then he knew he'd have to kill her. It turned out to be perfectly legal to shoot up a satellite dish in the state of Georgia, even a semi-intelligent bowling satellite dish.

Unfortunately, he lived in Utah, where such things were frowned upon.

He was going to need a LOT of co-ax.

But--maybe there was another way besides murder. Suicide wouldn't be his fault, would it?

They moved to a high-rise condo and he clamped her to the balcony.

Slowly, he waited for the pigeons to come. Bird by bird, they nested on his wife, encrusting her with droppings and the occasional dead rat--cutting off all her reception!

She tried to send off signals, but he kept buying the bird seed and slowly her power began to fade. And then, at long last, she was nothing but a fancy patio ornament. Evan was free!



Rachel said...

Yeah, that is fun.

Bill, the Wildcat said...

That is just hilarious! hehe Death by pigeon poo!

Anonymous said...

I assume this is "Lightning Write?"

Common error. My inner editor continually struggles to be released.

Kelly Swails said...

So funny! I love those sort of exercises.