I admit it. I love that opening line, tired and dragged out and rode-to-death as it is. Sue me, sue me, shoot arrows through me. But it’s also the first line of the round robin (very) short story we’re going to write; me, and yous — you game? Aw, come on.
There are several – many, actually – fine writers who read RtB on a (hopefully) somewhat regular basis. Ross has already guest-posted for us (any other takers?), and I know other good writers on a personal, face-to-face basis. You know who you are. Don’t make me name you.
Anyway, I’m interested to see what direction our little tale would go (although, knowing most of you, I have a clue). So let’s do it.
Rules of the Game
- Only add a few sentences at a time — but you can add on to the story as many different times as you like.
- Don’t click the “Reply” link. Just start a new comment altogether. That way, the story will read down the page, and we won’t nest ourselves into a 1-centimeter-wide column.
- The Fink gets the last line of the story. Because Kody will simply write, “Everyone died. The End.”
When the tale is told, I’ll write The End and close the comments. Ready? I’ll start.
It was a dark and stormy night.
Fiona Finkmeister sat in her lonely room, studying her music theory by the light of a single desk lamp while the storm raged ’round the house. She sighed and sat back in her chair, rubbing her eyes and yawning.
Theo, her beloved German Shepherd, was laying across her feet, keeping them warm as usual. Suddenly, Theo’s head sprang to attention. Fiona heard his low, menacing growl. “What is it, Theo?”, Fiona asked. Theo slowly rose and walked to Fiona’s bedroom door. Fiona saw the hair rise off the back of Theo’s neck. She froze….
…and finally worked up the courage to open the door. There, on the bed, wearing a black robe and reading a tattered copy of True Irish Ghost Stories, was none other than David Soul.
He looked up, nonchalantly. ‘Fiona’, he said. She replied: ‘David Soul’. Her voice wavered, ‘H’. He stood, casually, and pranced valiantly across the room to the door. David’s face grew important, urgent: ‘1967, The Merv Griffin show. You were watching. An important day for us both. We shared something unseen that evening. I will explain the rest later. Quickly! You must come! My balloon awaits!’
Fiona froze at the mention of the balloon. For you see, it was the massive, beautiful balloon that enticed her to leave her beloved husband, the ogre Shreck, and fly away to a world of bell bottom jeans, Maybelline Blooming Colors eye shadow and of course, that number one song (that she simply cannot remember the title) sung by this oddly attractive B list actor named David Soul.
“No, no wait! What are you doing here? How did you get in? what do you want?”
Hysteria was rising in Fiona. She remembers that night. A night she has been trying to smother with fun and frivolity. A night she never wanted to never remember again.
In an effort to block the horrid memories and stall the kidnapping, Fiona attempted to distract Soul with conversation. She asked, “All right then; where exactly are we going?” He replied, “Why, to Hell, of course — where ‘Don’t Give Up On Us, Baby’ plays all day and all night long. Muaahahahahahahaaa!”
As Soul was talking, Fiona’s hands were coming up to her face…her breath building for that blood-curdling scream – and then she stopped. She lowered her hands, looked him in the face and said, “Just a gosh darn minute! If you think that you can get me to go anywhere with you – EVER – you got another thing coming..you…you…HACK! You 70’s has-been!
David gave her one menacing smile as he continued to walk to her. Fiona proudly stood her ground even as David’s face transformed into the most hideous face she had ever seen.
It was the face of Henry A. Waxman; Representative of California’s 30th Congressional District and spokesperson for the American Clean Energy and Security Act of 2009: The ugliest man to ever grace the senate floor. Bulging eyes, vulgar mustache. A trout-like complexion. May the Lord have mercy.
Fiona stepped back in horror tripping over the dog and falling onto the glass top table. The sound of breaking glass splattered all over the room and Fiona screamed in pain. Blood was pulsing from her leg and just the sight of it rolled her into quivering jelly.
“Not to worry!” exclaimed Soul, as he pulled from his pocket a strange glass vial. As he removed the stopper, a smell filled the air reminiscent of curry, popcorn and K-mart hot dogs. Fiona gagged, but one drop of the potion stopped the bleeding and her gashes disappeared.
Fiona by now more than a bit frazzled motioned for her dog to take care of Waxman with a few quick chomps to the legs. Oh but the waxster was too quick and dodging the dog with an eloquent blend of irish and classic river dance, he began to rave hysterically in a booming voice:
“I starred in Jerry Springer, the Opera, foul wench! And you mocked me for it. Now you will pay.” Fiona knew she had to run. But where? She darted past Soul towards the open window, jumped through it with closed eyes, and…
she was waiting to feel the pain of breaking bones when she hit the ground below. Strange…this taking too long…she opened her eyes. She was flying!!! How can this be? It must have been the foul smelling potion that Soul used to stop her bleeding. Did he know what powers this potion held?
landed in the basket of the dreaded balloon. It was dark and the flicker of the balloons flames cast eerie shadows. Waxman was still in the room entertaining the dog and seeming to have a good time. The nights excitement appeared to be winding down and Fioney realized she needed a cup of joe. Looking out over the town she spotted a Starbucks. “I think I will sail that way”.
…began the plummet out of her five-story mansion. Fiona fell, legs flailing and hands grasping, as the windows rushed passed so fast they formed a single white blur.
And then it happened. She hit. She tried to stand, but…
She had landed in some sort of time space continuum field with alternate destinies available to her. Her options:
1. Fly away using potion power
2. Go to statbucks and call it a night.
3. Land on the ground…break all bones.
*starrrrrrrrrbucks
Fiona mustered the energy to scream out in pain, “Starbucks, must go to Starbucks. . .help meeeee.” Out of nowhere appeared a donkey. He looked oddly familiar-maybe from a land far far away? Could it be?
Yes it was! The five-legged wonder-mule of Fiona’s childhood, Paswonky Jonas Brother. The unmistakable two-tone bottle-job faux mane, the one gold hoof, and the wrinkled, spatulate lips of a denture-less mouth, brought Fiona’s adolescent past back to her in one sweeping, dry Kool-aid induced, 80’s bang-wearing smack on the tuckus.
Paswonsky Jonas Brother says “Well whatcha doin’ Fioa? Why are ya sittin’ thar?” Fiona gives him a very annoyed look before stating, “I need my Starsbuck! Now!” Paswonsky says…
“Don’t ya know? Starbucks is banned from existin’… somethin’ about lacin’ their bags of coffee with an addictive agent hidden by caffeine.” Fiona could only stare at Paswonsky Jonas Brother, until….
…her eyes got dry. She blinked. A strange feeling. Eight years passed. She blinked again. Paswonsky Jonas Brother had turned to marble. He looked elegant. ‘He will bring a high price,’ she thought. The strange feeling remained, and she continued on foot. Much had changed. She checked her pocket calendar. Sure enough, it had been eight years since the Starbuck incident. ‘What happened?’ A slow voice came from behind, ‘it was all part of something larger.’ It was David Soul. His face had returned to normal: aging but handsome. ‘You will see it in time, you will,’ he said. Nervous, she replied, ‘But it was all so strange, I don’t understand.’ He turned quickly, hopped into the balloon, and began his ascension. From the clouds it came: ‘It will all make sense tomorrow. I love you. Goodbye.’
Fiona thought “What does that mean?”, for about a minute, then looked down at her knees. It had been eight long years, and her legs resembeld a Yak’s… or lumberjacks face. Fiona decided that priority number one would be to address her unkempt apperance.
And then she was jarred from her reverie. Looking about her, she recognized things. Her dresser, her comforter, her nightstand.
It was all a dream.
Awash in total relief, she reclined on the bed, grabbed the remote, and turned on the television. Strangely, the TV was stuck on one channel.
She spent the rest of the night watching a Starsky & Hutch marathon, and drifted back into dreamland.
THE END.