Yesterday I linked to Frankenstory, the site that lets you write a story with a friend — with the gimmick, and the fun, lying in the fact that each writer can only see the final ten words of each section their partner writes.
I sent Frankenstories to Maxine Clarke, who lured me into participating to begin with, and to Snart. Now Maxine has dared me to post the results.
Very well, then. First, the redacted versions. These are the bits we had to work with when we were writing.
Meg’s and Maxine’s redacted Frankenstory:
xx xxx xxxxx x xxxx xxxx… He heard: “The Southwest Trains service to Kingston Upon Thames is cancelled.”
xxxx x xx xx xx xxxx… Matt. But a woman answered! “Tough luck, buddy!” she drawled.
xxx xx xxxx xxx xx xx xxxx x… at the seemingly innocuous offices of Nature magazine. Now this.
was deeply dangerous… xxxxx x xx xxx.
Snart’s and Meg’s redacted story:
xxxxx x xx x… falsies and arch supports. Suddenly, their deaths are hell. Tonight!
xx xxx x… return. The Battle of La Cumbre Plaza is not over.
xxxx xx xxxx… staplers and duct tape. Humankind has no taste for carnage.
Not raw, anyway… xxx x xxx xx.
And now, the full stories. Remember — nobody had much idea what her partner was writing. We could only guess, and go nuts. 40 words at a pop. So the results aren’t publishable — just entertaining.
Meg’s and Maxine’s full Frankenstory:
Bourne shoved aside the nun with the knife and ran through Waterloo. Viggo was down, taken by Dr. Clarke, but Bourne could still escape. Then doom struck. He heard: “The Southwest Trains service to Kingston-upon-Thames is cancelled.”
Would the nuns get there first, he wondered desperately? Quickly, he leapt over the fence and grabbed the rucksack. Scrabbling down the hill, he pulled out his mobile phone and speed-dialled Matt. But a woman answered! “Tough luck, buddy!” she drawled.
It couldn’t be the American. He’d sent the monk to deal with her. He ripped off the woman’s wig. Sarah Palin! Could it get worse? Torture, canceled trains, escaping captivity at the seemingly innocuous offices of Nature magazine. Now this…
… was deeply dangerous. Rejecting the manuscript of the cyberbioterrorists was not for the faint-hearted. Nonetheless, Clint did not flinch. Staggering to the coalface, his heart stuttering, he gasped “No!” Was he too late? Will the earthquake hit? Cont part 2.
Snart’s and Meg’s full story:
Zombies live for the night. Fresh meat, dampness, and little traffic. But one night each year, them must endure … the Body Makeover! … when their creator re-installs their pacemakers, contacts, falsies and arch supports. Suddenly, their deaths are hell. Tonight!
We pull our dead from the display window at Victoria’s Secret and shore up the barricades. We have little time. When night falls, the Dr. Scholl’s army will return. The Battle of La Cumbre Plaza is not over.
… come next year, given that the planet is still here and their Queen of the Dead, Joan Rivers, still exists, they will come again, armed with limbs and twining bales, staplers and duct tape. Humankind has no taste for carnage.
Not raw, anyway. With salsa, definitely. We shovel up the glass, prod prisoners into the barbed-wire pen at Gymboree, stoke the fire at Sears. And open a new restaurant to crown La Cumbre Plaza: Chili’s Con Carnage.