It was a moonless night… A social networking narrative experiment

It was a moonless night. They had been at this for hours. Their heavy, tired feet were moving in synch with each other creating a rhythm that cleared their minds of the arduous task at hand and the more difficult task to come. For the moment, all they needed to focus on was keeping up the rhythm:  Tap, plump, crunch, drag, tap, plump, crunch.

 

This is a social networking experiment in narrative writing. I invite you, the reader, to engage now as a writer. Add a paragraph in the comments section that builds on the first paragraph in the story and subsequent paragraphs developed by others.

You are allowed only one paragraph per post. You are allowed one post for every three posts made by others. Your words may be subjected to some minor editing. Your post may not be used if it does not flow properly with the rest of the narrative or if it is deemed inappropriate for other reasons. Do not let this last statement stifle your creativity, however.

Develop the storyline and the characters as the process progresses.

Identify yourself as the owner of your words unless you wish to remain anonymous. But do realize that the final product may possibly turn into a New York Times Best Seller or a Hollywood movie, in which case you might regret not making mention of your name to get credit for your words.

Now have fun! And let’s see what this story is all about!

13 comments

  1. I sense another in India who is a story teller. I wonder if this is how we connect so many miles and cultures apart. I am reminded of my spiritual teachings that one drop merges in the ocean of drops where we become one. Are we really different? Or do we aspire to claim for ourselves a better world where we can experience our gifts being nurtured for the benefit of all, least these gifts stay locked up and fester only to become toxic and leak out in the world as suffering.

  2. There were four of them. The two women would grunt softly when a root or rock pulled against their efforts. The two men were silent, which was much easier for the one in the tarp.

  3. Reddish-brown stains created uneven borders around several small tears on the tarp. They weren’t too worried about the one in the tarp. As long as he was still bleeding, they would deliver him alive. Blood was life.

  4. Although he felt loosing a part of his life with every drop of blood, he kept reconstructing her image as if it was a protectve totem from what could be coming.

  5. Money! Sirui thought of her family back home. Save this life, and maybe she could return to them. Lose it and they were all lost. She turned her mind to the task and focussed on the rhythm. Tap, plump, crunch, drag, tap, plump, crunch.

  6. Suddenly, night was day. From nowhere – everywhere – blue-white light ravaged the sky. A flare of such intensity, still scorching their eyes even as it dimmed on its long fall back to earth, could mean only one thing.

  7. Ashtang shielded his eyes, “Oh there is the nebula again.” But, Siriu reminded them that the task ahead was much more important. “Don’t forget why you’re here.”

  8. “I know, proof of life is what they asked for, and proof of life is what they’ll get. They’d better be on time for the exchange.”
    The other two looked away and concentrated on their load as Siriu cut short Ashtang’s complaining. “We just need to keep him breathing till we get the money, then he’s not our problem any more.”

  9. followed by an eerie, piercing cry emenating from a hundred voices. I chambered a round and raised my rifle. The hackles on the back of my neck bristled, I could feel the fear curising through my knees and yet,

  10. none of us, neither singly, nor in unity, had in our sight or in our minds that which stalked us and now was manifesting itself. Was the game up? Were we who were the captors about to become captive? And what then? A fate worse than slowly dying, oblivious to it all, as was the blissful state of our burden, our hope, our inhumanity, this life we held desperately, as if it was our own. A fate called despised, condemned, beyond redemption, is there a single word for it in any language? Some birds, disturbed by our approach and of the star’s failed falling to earth fluttered frantically, calling into the sky. A great noise a thousand voices. I let put the safety back on my rifle, let the barrel point at the ground, and watched the birds, yes, watched them, for even without the moon, in the sky there was still light.

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