Admit it that was kind of funny. Below is a photo I saw on a panda's tumblr and I think it is a lovely photo too pretty for my tumblr so it tumbled its way here and goes up here. I have an idea in my head that will not go away! I do not think it is original if original means no one has thought it up before because I'm sure many others have. But it is the first time it has flowered and bloomed in my head so it is original to me I guess. My original. Moriginal. Morange. And I don't know if anyone will want to be part of my idea. But here goes.
I will write a paragraph. About what I do not yet know. But it will be about a boy and a girl. Or two girls. Or two boys. So it goes. And I will put it up on my blog. Sometime. Maybe tonight! And it will be a story that could be a story on its own. But no one likes the ending of stories. So. If you're free maybe you could write a paragraph of your own! A continuation of mine, if you will. And it could be about anything you wanted it to be. (You could make up words if you wanted.) Though I think it would be nice if there were some link, even a tenuous one, to mine. And then you write your paragraph, however long or short you would like it to be. And once you're done you could send my story and your story to another person who would write their story. I would be very glad if you could send it back to me because I would very much like to read your story (O: But if you would rather not that is also fine. And the person you send it to could pass it on to another person. So it'd be a compilation of many people's stories. The world's stories. And it would be fantastic because you could edit the flow of the story if you didn't like it. So everything would turn out the way you want it to. And the person after could do the same. So everyone's story is always changing. And it is great because you will never know how it would turn out. Which is kind of scary I guess but exciting all the same. OKAY HERE IS MY STORY!
She peeked through fingers that covered her face. They might have been her own, their hands were so alike. (A bump on the middle finger of their right hands. Bitten nails, but only on their left pinkies.) She could see the goal in sight, a treehouse they had built a summer and seven memories ago. She counted to three, slowly, deliberately, holding her breath for as long as she could before reaching two. She imagined her puffed cheeks turning purple with all the air she could store, and imagined herself floating away, very much like a hot air balloon. A purple hot air balloon. The thought delighted her, gave her as much joy as melty butterscotch drizzled over cherries gave her tummy, warmed her from the inside. She decided that if she could not float away, she would do the very next best thing. "Th...r....ee!" With a gleeful smile like those of cherubims, she sprinted off, the fingers fluttering off her face, almost bewildered. He watched as she stumbled over the uneven blanket of grass. Her oversized shirt chasing behind her, a cape. Her elbows gangly and flailing awkardly. He loved her elbows. His fingers loved her face, loved the sliver of a crescent shaped depression beneath her right ear. As he gave chase, he thought of how she would bite his fingers if he absentmindedly let them play over her pale lips, kind of like a piranha. His piranha.
I will write a paragraph. About what I do not yet know. But it will be about a boy and a girl. Or two girls. Or two boys. So it goes. And I will put it up on my blog. Sometime. Maybe tonight! And it will be a story that could be a story on its own. But no one likes the ending of stories. So. If you're free maybe you could write a paragraph of your own! A continuation of mine, if you will. And it could be about anything you wanted it to be. (You could make up words if you wanted.) Though I think it would be nice if there were some link, even a tenuous one, to mine. And then you write your paragraph, however long or short you would like it to be. And once you're done you could send my story and your story to another person who would write their story. I would be very glad if you could send it back to me because I would very much like to read your story (O: But if you would rather not that is also fine. And the person you send it to could pass it on to another person. So it'd be a compilation of many people's stories. The world's stories. And it would be fantastic because you could edit the flow of the story if you didn't like it. So everything would turn out the way you want it to. And the person after could do the same. So everyone's story is always changing. And it is great because you will never know how it would turn out. Which is kind of scary I guess but exciting all the same. OKAY HERE IS MY STORY!
She peeked through fingers that covered her face. They might have been her own, their hands were so alike. (A bump on the middle finger of their right hands. Bitten nails, but only on their left pinkies.) She could see the goal in sight, a treehouse they had built a summer and seven memories ago. She counted to three, slowly, deliberately, holding her breath for as long as she could before reaching two. She imagined her puffed cheeks turning purple with all the air she could store, and imagined herself floating away, very much like a hot air balloon. A purple hot air balloon. The thought delighted her, gave her as much joy as melty butterscotch drizzled over cherries gave her tummy, warmed her from the inside. She decided that if she could not float away, she would do the very next best thing. "Th...r....ee!" With a gleeful smile like those of cherubims, she sprinted off, the fingers fluttering off her face, almost bewildered. He watched as she stumbled over the uneven blanket of grass. Her oversized shirt chasing behind her, a cape. Her elbows gangly and flailing awkardly. He loved her elbows. His fingers loved her face, loved the sliver of a crescent shaped depression beneath her right ear. As he gave chase, he thought of how she would bite his fingers if he absentmindedly let them play over her pale lips, kind of like a piranha. His piranha.
