Not signed in (Sign In)

Categories

Vanilla 1.1.8 is a product of Lussumo. More Information: Documentation, Community Support.

Welcome Guest!
Want to take part in these discussions? If you have an account, sign in now.
If you don't have an account, apply for one now.
    •  
      CommentAuthorRT3
    • CommentTimeJun 26th 2009 edited
     

    This has nothing to do with Twilight, really. I just figured nobody cares much about improving writing so I put a Twilight bash type thing in the thread title. Sorry for misleading you. I hope you won’t hold it against me. Anyway, here’s the schpiel, if that’s how you spell schpiel. I don’t know. Confession number two, I’m not actually Jewish. I’m sorry, darling. Anyway, an email exchange designed to assist in the realm of academic procrastination got out of hand, and produced a series of short stories — no, let’s call them fables. Anyway, they’re the same story, written by different people. Starting with myself, followed by a mystery author whose copyright I’m stealing (we’ll call him J), then Ty (a contributor/lurker here at II) and concluded by myself. Later, we called it an academic exercise in order to impress the faculty, but you know better. Now here’s where you come in — assuming you finish reading these, which you will almost certainly not because tl:dr, you try a rewrite in a different style! It’s a great chance to make an idiot of yourself show that you’re a good writer and/or funny. Also good for procrastination, which is presumably why you’re on here anyway.

    Part I, by me

    Dear Diary,

    January 28, 2007 —

    Today I finally asked Marcus if he found my shrubberies attractive, but alas — he did not. He went as far as to claim that he had seen better trimmed foliage in Canada, at which point I ran away, tears flowing freely, causing my mascara to run, and generally ruining my day. On the other hand, Jimbo, my oversized pet turtle, spoke his first word today! I cried again (ruining the mascara I had painstakingly reapplied after my mud bath, again), when the little concentration of pure joy and shelliness cries out “mommy”, which I believe he uses in reference to an aging piece of pie that sits forever on my dining room table, near his luxury turtle suite. He loves it dearly.

    After reattaching my fingers, I decided to call Jean, for advice on shrubbery arrangement, turtle grammar excercises, penguins (for fun, unrelated) and back waxing (long story). Our conversation went something like this:

    “Hello, is Jean there?”

    “No. Who is this?”

    “Calvin.”

    “Oh, this is Dan.”

    “Hi Dan. I needed to-”

    “Just kidding, it is Jean. How are you?”

    “I’m doing alright, but I need your advice on a few things.”

    “Shoot.”

    “Ok, well—”

    “No, I’m playing pool and talking simultaneously.”

    “Oh.”

    “But go ahead.”

    “Right. Jimbo spoke!”

    “I told you the starvation was unnecessary.”

    “I still think it was a vital part—”

    “Just kidding, this is Dan.” click

    After smoking a few Cubans (they eventually got off their lunch break and resumed the reperation of my Queen Anne TV cabinet) I decided to take a nap on a concrete slab. Unfortunately, one of the Cubans had set up a diorama on the history of communism and its effects upon ants in Africa, when suddenly, it hit me! I threw the baseball back out the window and finally decided that sleeping on my couch would be fine, and long as the coushions were replaces with something hard (a particulalrly lumpy Cuban was volunteered). And now I turn to you, diary, to ask for advice. You haven’t called back yet, but then, neither has my girlfriend.

    Part II, by J

    There is, in fact, a strange class of men who enjoyed shrubbery arranging. I happen to be amongst their ranks, and so what Marcus said about my shrubberies; I can’t repeat it here, too soon, too fresh; hit me like my fifth wife, twice removed, and twice is once too few. If I could get rid of her, I would, but the allowance is less than the alimony, and she talks to me less when she’s married to me. Back to Marcus, I simply couldn’t believe what I was hearing…I admit, in the heat of the moment, I fled like a French border guard flees his post when he’s got money for cigarettes…and the French wear eye makeup and cry when they’re happy, if you know what I mean.

    Back home, I was consoled by the musings of an old friend, and I swear this time I’m not talking about Southern Comfort. My pet turtle, Jimbo, was making the squeaking noises again, but rather than noises of distress, they were noises of love: a strange love more beautiful than any other here on Earth, and if you think I’m jaded, why don’t you try having a conversation with wife number 3. This love was between turtle, and pie…a love that, if nothing else, had caused me to keep a piece of pie ‘till its mold had mold. Seeing a turtle say “mommy” to a piece of rotten fly-bait makes it all worth it.

    I knew that the world doesn’t stop during times like these, even if you wish it would, so I thought I’d get back on the case. A strange case it was, but I had stranger contacts, and they hadn’t let me down yet. I thought I’d start with Jean, a man who happened to know about shrubbery arrangement (not crucial to the case, but to my peace of mind), turtle grammar, penguins and back waxing. A strange case indeed, but who says Jean isn’t up to it…the only thing that needed doing was getting Jean to talk…considering that he was a prime suspect, this was going to be hard, especially since I didn’t know what he knew. Well, I learn at least once a week not to underestimate Jean, and this time I did…badly. Our conversation went a little like this:

    “Hello, is Jean there?”

    “No. Who is this?”

    “Jake.”

    “Oh, this is Dan.”

    “Hi Dan. I needed to-”

    “Just kidding, it is Jean. How are you?”

    “I’m doing alright, but I need your advice on a few things.”

    “Shoot.”

    “Ok, well—”

    “No, I’m playing pool and talking simultaneously.”

    “Oh.”

    “But go ahead.”

    “Right. Jimbo spoke!”

    “I told you the starvation was unnecessary.”

    “I still think it was a vital part—”

    “Just kidding, this is Dan.” click

    This conversation might seem strange, but you get used to it, and you know what? It feels so good when it stops that it’s worth it; most of all, it was worth it becasuse of the 50 grand the dame had promised me. But I screwed up, and I was back to square one.

    I thought that the house seemed to quiet, so I decided that the Cubans I hired to repair my Queen Anne TV cabinet only needed three hours for lunch. While they were hammering away, I thought I’d take a nap on the concrete slab I like to call a bed…unfortunately, I wasn’t about to get any rest. There on the bed was some kind of diarama depicting various communist leaders, African ants, and various other headache inducing devices. Then, suddenly, it hit me, just as if every nice young girl who decided they didn’t want a lecherous forty year old hitting on them had all gotten together and pooled their resources for one last sucker punch to finish me off. (honestly, though, what psycho goes around town giving all these dames boxing lessons?) A baseball flew in through the window, but nothing was going to stop me now, so I threw it out, and ran down the stairs to the sounds of a windshield being smashed and three cars making an impromptu road-block. I sat down on the couch, sitting on a particularly lumpy Cuban in the process, and found him comfier than I expected. Well, nothing would stop me, except sleep, which was a client I’d put off for thirty nine hours, and now it had cornered me…when I awoke, I heard that the boys at the station had solved the crime just a little before I awoke…just my luck. It was all for the best, though. It turns out I suspected the wrong man. Well, you win some you lose some.

    Part III, by Ty

    Key Plot Points + Antarctica

    I had just finished putting the last touches of mascara on my punk-rocker shaped Antiguan thorn bushes when that walking bundle of animosity, Marcus, decided to spit some of his bile on Billy Joe Armstrong de Green Day, who currently inhabits the left corner of my garden. Why Mr. Elevator Music chose to bestow such an unwanted gift upon my beatific creation, I’ll never know, but I felt my heart splinter to pieces in the wake of his slimy trail of negativity. How could an insult of such magnitude to my prized shrubberies be endured? Rather than bemoan my misfortune to the daisies and geraniums, I hurried inside my neon-yellow abode, just barely escaping the flood of mascara and tears emitted by my oh-so-sensitive shrubs.

    Jimbo the pet turtle was inside, salivating as usual over my fossilized tart Tatin, which is like some form of French apple pie. I think my mom brought this back from her honeymoon in Antarctica about 40 years ago, where they use it as penguin bait. Apparently snapping turtles from Venezuela harbor the same affection for caramelized apples as tuxedoed Antarctic creatures.

    I settled down to revel in melancholy moaning for a few hours when Jimbo let out a piercing shriek. Wondering if he had finally decided to give in to the futility of his situation and die, leaving behind his beloved crusty edible, I peered into his recycled-fish-aquarium of a cage. I’ll admit that I was hoping for some musical inspiration through witnessing the miracle of this irritating animal’s death, but I was disappointed. Instead of tragically closing his beady eyes and throwing his short legs in the air, Jimbo spoke his first word: Mommy. To the pie. Feeling supremely bored, I reached for my teleportation device and landed somewhere in Antarctica, enabling me to contact Jean, whose powers of communication are best served by the hole in the ozone layer. Jean lives in the North Pole at exactly 0 latitude and 0 longitude, and we have in common a passion for shrubbery arrangement; animosity towards turtles and their vocal exercises; penguins who serve as both alter egos and symbols of childhood abandonment; and a profound fear of back waxing. Today our conversation was about as enlightening as usual, and went something like this:

    “Hello, is Jean there?”

    “No. Who is this?”

    “Ty.”

    “Oh, this is Dan.”

    “Hi Dan. I needed to-”

    “Just kidding, it is Jean. How are you?”

    “I’m doing alright, but I need your advice on a few things.”

    “Shoot.”

    “Ok, well—”

    “No, I’m playing pool and talking simultaneously.”

    “Oh.”

    “But go ahead.”

    “Right. Jimbo spoke!”

    “I told you the starvation was unnecessary.”

    “I still think it was a vital part—”

    “Just kidding, this is Dan.” click

    At this point the Cubans I had hired to haul a few loads of African Savannah shrubs and repair my mother’s Queen Anne TV cabinet, also from Antarctica, were having an animated discussion about La Revolucion, Che Guavera, Lenin, and socialist ant colonies in South Africa. I listened intently and wrote a few pages of notes that will definitely earn me an A on my next Core paper. Then, feeling grateful towards my intelligent employees, I played “Back in the USSR” nonstop for about 30 minutes. They seemed rather in a hurry to get out of my place once the repairs were done, especially when Jimbo began composing a love ballad for his Tatin, so I paid them in a few gold doubloons and saluted them as comrades.

    It was getting rather quiet, so I hitched a current back to Antarctica, sat on my favorite glacier, and listened to things drip.

    Part IV, by me again

    As I was speaking with Marcus, I decided to finally pop the question.

    “Do you find my shrubberies attractive?”

    BAM. My witty phrasing and deft conversational navigation sent his mind flying, along with the rest of his body. His body fell out of the window of my ranch house and thirty six stories down, before his jettisoned his ‘chute with a great whoosh. 3.17. Beat my time by .08 seconds. then I saw that Marcus had in fact, landed in my prized shrubbery that had grown naturally to look exactly like Jerry Lee Lewis. Ruined. Goodness, gracious, great balls of fire! It hit me like a slap in the face. Literally, the stopwatch hit me in the face. whack. I lay, sobbing in my pain, pondering whether amputation would be necessary. Suddenly, realization flooded my head — my mascara was smearing, and I had 60 seconds to be at the embassy!

    I quickly snatched up Jimbo, my pet turtle, and dove out the window, with no regards to my own safety or that of the window washer who had been standing in front of it, who now plummeted with me. fwoop went my parachute, as I glided safely down to the ground, and crunch went the washer as he ran, not into my shrubbery (which now resembled Prince Charles’ left hand), but into my prize thorn bush and poison oak garden. then they came, opening fire, destroying my petunias entirely. I ducked behind a rhododendron, and pulled out my walkie talkie to call for backup while Jimbo spread cover fire.

    “Jean, Jean, come in! Can you hear me!”

    “It’s ‘Red Dogg’ on insecure channels, Mad Hatter.”

    “I’m sure the channel just needs a little encouragement and an outlet for its own unique and valuable talents — but there’s no time for that now!”

    “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

    “I’m in several kinds of trouble. My wife left, my dog died, my truck broke down — my life’s like a country song. But the most immediate problem are the bullets that are blazing inches above my head! “

    “Right. I’ll send backup right away.”

    “I am the backup, soldier!!!”

    “Uh, are you positive on that point, Mad Hatter?”

    “No, but it sounded good at the time, Red Dogg. Listen — aaaaaaagh!”

    “Mad Hatter? Mad Hatter! What’s you status?”

    “Broke a nail. When’s that backup going to show up, Red Dogg?”

    “NOW*!”

    Immediately, a group of penguins came upon the left flank of my attackers, and using their wily kung-fu moves, quickly defeated them. One more cell of cuban terrorists uprooted. Unfortunately, a large group of neopolitical napoleanic neanderthals neglegently nudged Ned’s nose! I couldn’t see where they had come from, but it is entirely unimportant as a plot device anyway! The wicked little critter responded by barking, wagging his tail, calling the authorities, calling his lawyer, calling his parents, calling his network (out of minutes. He upgraded his plan in the process), and then calling it quits. then, I saw it. A bullet, headed directly for Ned’s noggin. Jimbo dove in the way, drawing into his shell!

    The bullet bounced off, hitting the power button and causing a complete nuclear meltdown. just before the reactor exploded, we dove into a jet that happened to be flying ten feet (I’m tall and a good jumper) above the ground, and we safely avoided the explosion. Another day at the post office.

    ~

    And that’s it! Good luck with your own pathetic attempts!

    •  
      CommentAuthorCorsair
    • CommentTimeJun 26th 2009
     
    ...What the hell?
  1.  

    The Knights who say Ni want a shrubbery! (You said ‘shrubbery’! You must have known the Monty Python reference would be inevitable!)

    And thank you. Good luck will be necessary.

    • CommentAuthorCodeWizard
    • CommentTimeJun 26th 2009
     

    seriously, tl;dr

    A better way to do this exercise is to list which information is important and which is irrelevant.

    •  
      CommentAuthorRT3
    • CommentTimeJun 27th 2009
     

    Who gives a fuck if it’s important or relevant? “A better way to do this exercise is to do a completely different exercise that misses the point of the first one entirely.” Even information that is essential to the continuity of one story may be left out in a subsequent modification as long as enough of the content and/or structure is retained such that the new story is identifiably a transformation of its predecessor. The lack of a coherent structure or sense-based plot intensifies the need to analyze the elements of the story – otherwise one could just vaguely copy the plot and call it a valid transformation.

    • CommentAuthorCodeWizard
    • CommentTimeJun 27th 2009
     

    How the fuck are you supposed to write it if you don’t know what information you have to leave in or not?

  2.  

    @CB: It’s not worth getting upset about. And if you didn’t read it, just leave the thread alone.

    Working on the assumption that it was up to me to decide what to leave in and what to take out , I went back to the original one as my model. Hope that’s okay.

    What follows is half affectation, half purely me, and probably badly written.

    Part V: written by ME!

    As I took Marcus on a tour around the garden, I noticed that he seemed to take less of an interest in my shrubberies than in my roses. I wondered briefly if he liked the beastly things, but then shook my head in repulsion. Surely not!
    But now the idea was in my head, and I had to know. Surely he liked my shrubbery more!

    “Marcus, I…” I broke off as he turned to look at me. Well, he was quite ugly. The sight of him would be enough to take anyone’s breath away. Still, I loved him, and I had every right to ask him what he thought of my shrubbery. I could only pray the answer would be yes.

    “Yes?” was all he said, his gaze boring so deeply into my eyes it was like a sledgehammer had dealt an irreparable blow to my lungs. I asked mum about it once, and she said she’s pretty sure that’s how you know you’re in love. Then she told me to shut up because she was trying to watch TV.

    “I… I… Marcus, I have to know. Do you like my shrubbery?” There. It was out. I would know the worst.

    His face fell. “I…”

    “Be honest,” I urged him, but my heart was breaking.

    “Well, quite frankly, I’ve seen better elephants drawn by a three-year-old!”

    “That’s a camel.”

    “Sorry.” After a moment, he added, “I like your roses.”

    “I hate roses!”

    “Then why do you grow them in—” he saw my face and stopped.

    I did my best not to cry.

    ***

    Three hours later, I had stopped sobbing for long enough to wipe the mascara off my face. I left Marcus and my pet turtle Jimbo in the loungeroom.

    “Hey, Camilla?”

    “My name’s Alice.” I stared into the mirror and wiped a black streak from my face.

    “Right. Sorry, Alice.”

    “Thanks,” I called back as I eradicated another stripe.

    Silence. I wondered if I could leave one on there, just to show my emo side. Then I realised that that would be too weird and artificial, and therefore completely against the spirit of the emos.

    “Hey, Alice?”

    “Yes?”

    “Why do you grow roses if you hate them so much?” Evidently he’d decided to get to the point very quickly. Well, too bad, Marcus. No brownie points for you.

    “That’s not really any of your business.”

    “But—”

    Just then, Jimbo saved me from replying. He said his first word. I won’t repeat it here. All I’ll say is that he certainly didn’t learn it from me! I was mortified. And right in front of Marcus, too!

    “I’ve got no idea where he picked that up from!”

    Marcus went very quiet, obviously not wanting to embarrass me. He’s so nice whenever one of my animals spouts profanity. And let me tell you, they do it a lot! Nevertheless, he and his friends hang around the animals all the time.

    It’s funny, actually. The animals only developed the swearing habit about three months after Marcus and his friends started coming over. Poor guys had no idea what they were getting themselves into.

    Not that they seem to mind. They laugh politely every time a penguin starts babbling swear words. (Between you and me, I think they overdo it a little. But at least they’re trying to be polite. Such nice boys.)

    I had to call Jean, and quickly. This animal swearing thing was getting out of control.
    “Hello, is Jean there?”
    “No. Who is this?”
    “Alice.”
    “Oh, this is Dan.”
    “Hi, Dan. Anyway, I needed to-”
    “Just kidding, it is Je—” click.

    Whoops. I’d just hung up on Jean. What more could go wrong today? My mascara, carefully reapplied by this stage, was in danger of running again. Life was catching up with me, I felt. Maybe I had PMS. That would explain a lot.

    I needed to sit down.

    “Ow!”

    “Oh, sorry, Marcus.”

    “Come on, Jimbo. Come and comfort mummy.”

    “*&@#@##*&!!!!!!”

    This time, my mascara did run. I sat down heavily, not caring that Marcus was making little groaning noises. I don’t know what he had to complain about. I, personally, was rather uncomfortable. For a Cuban, he was pretty lumpy. I realised that it was the baseball in his shirt pocket that was making my seat-man so uncomfortable, so I threw it out the window.

    I think I might have hit the window-washer, because I’m sure I heard a “YOW!” Thank goodness he wouldn’t have landed too far- it was only three stories up, and that wasn’t including the human pyramid Marcus’s friends had created outside two minutes ago. Knowing them, it was sure to be still standing. Once, they kept it up for thirty-nine hours, putting off sleep to keep going. (They only fell over as early as they did was because Jimbo bit one of the bottom participants on the finger. What a noise that made!)

    Speaking of Jimbo, I threw a certain turtle out after the baseball. It was time for him to have breakfast—three roses. Marcus shall never know why I grow them. After all, the best romances have a tinge of mystery about them…

    There was a giant crash from outside the house.

    • CommentAuthorCodeWizard
    • CommentTimeJun 27th 2009
     

    My question is important because even level of detail is a matter of style. How far or close you describe things.

    But w/e.

  3.  

    My question is important because even level of detail is a matter of style. How far or close you describe things.

    Personal taste.

    • CommentAuthorCodeWizard
    • CommentTimeJun 27th 2009
     

    Well I could just write:

    “Stuff happened to me. Funny stuff.”

    And I’d still be narrating the same thing.

  4.  

    Okay, well then, that was part six. XD

    Ha ha, you could, but I think the point of this is to have fun writing it. If you had fun writing that, then good on you.

    If you didn’t, and were just trying to make a point, keep in mind that attempted subversion of everything is not the ultimate aim in life.

    •  
      CommentAuthorswenson
    • CommentTimeJun 27th 2009 edited
     

    Part VII, if we’re counting CB’s as one, by me:

    I carefully trimmed another quarter-inch off the shrubbery in front of me and rocked back on my heels to examine it from afar. Yes, that should do it. Standing up, I pitched the hedge trimmers back into my toolbox and stripped off my gardening gloves, nodding with satisfaction.

    “Hey, Mickey!” Marcus called as he entered the garden.

    I smiled hesitantly at my father as he approached the shrubbery. “Ricky, sir,” I mumbled before straightening up and loudly saying, “Hello, father!”

    “What have you been up to?” he asked pleasantly.

    My stomach flip-flopped as I worked up the courage to answer. My father had never approved of my gardening hobby, so I’d prepared this elegantly-styled shrubbery to convince him of its worth. Now that it was time to speak up, however, I wasn’t so sure it was the best idea.

    No, I told myself firmly. Be brave. Speak up! I cleared my throat nervously, then said, “I’ve been… ahh…” I hesitated, then whispered, “Gardening.”

    “What’s that?” he said suspiciously.

    I summoned up my courage again and pointed at the shrubbery. “Gardening. I’ve been trimming that. It’s my best.”

    He considered the shrubbery, and for a brief moment I dared to hope he would approve. “I hate gardening and that’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen, even uglier than Canada,” he growled, dashing all my hopes. Then he stormed off in a fury, leaving me to weep by my shrubbery.

    Finally, I went in from the garden and sat despondently at the table, staring at my pet turtle, Jimbo. Sniff sniff. “He just doesn’t understand,” I moaned, watching Jimbo run on his exercise wheel. “He doesn’t understand my dreams, my hopes…”

    “Mommy?” Jimbo squeaked.

    I blinked in astonishment. “Jimbo? Jimbo! You spoke!” I said, overjoyed. “The starvation worked!” Gleefully, I leapt out of my chair and snatched the old piece of pie off the counter. I dropped it inside his cage luxury suite and waited for him to partake of his prize.

    “Mommy!” Jimbo squeaked again, nuzzling the pie slice until some of the mold dropped off.

    I sighed. “Well, that wasn’t quite the reaction I was hoping for, but it’ll do. Wait until I tell Jean!” I ran for the phone. My friend Jean was the only other person who knew about my second hobby, turtle training, and she would be thrilled to hear about my success.

    “Jean!” I cried as soon as the phone was answered. “Guess what happ-”

    “Who is this?”

    “Um… Ricky?” I said, wondering who was on the other end.

    “Oh. This is Dan. Jean isn’t here right now.”

    “Oh.”

    “Nah, just kidding. This is Jean.”

    “Oh! Good, I had to talk to you!”

    “Shoot.”

    “Well, today-”

    “Not talking to you- I’m at the shooting range right now. We’ll have to time our conversation between-” BANG! “shotgun blasts-” BANG! “-but I’m sure it’ll be okay.” BANG!

    “Um. All right then-” BANG! “I just wanted to say-” BANG! “-that Jimbo spoke today!” BANG!

    “I told you not to-” BANG! “-starve him.”

    “No, I’m-” BANG! “convinced it worked! Next time-” BANG!

    “Nah, just kidding again, this is Dan.” click

    I stared at the phone for a while, then sighed. I was tired and needed a nap.

    BANG!

    “What?!” I yelled. “I’m not even on the phone any more!”

    “Lo siento, senor,” a voice came from the front room. “It is only us, fixing Queen Anne.”

    I hurried to the front room, utterly confused, then nodded knowingly as I entered the room. My mother had a huge plaster statue of Queen Anne in the front room, and somehow a shrubbery may have knocked into it and broken it as it was carried inside from the garden, but I have no idea how on earth that could have happened. Suffice to say, it was broken, and my mother had hired three Cuban plasterers to fix it.

    I sighed and lay down on the tile floor, knowing I wouldn’t get any rest anyway, not with all that banging. “How do you even fix a plaster statue by banging on it?” I grumbled, glaring at them.

    They shrugged. “No se,” the leader said. “But are you not uncomfortable?”

    I shrugged, scraping my shoulderblades painfully across the edge of a floor tile. “Haven’t got anywhere better to sleep.”

    “You could try the couch.”

    I considered the lumpy couch for a moment, then shrugged again—YOWCH!—and got up. “Thanks,” I said, laying down on it. It wasn’t much better than the floor, but at least there weren’t sharp tiles.

    “Don’t mention it,” the Cuban said, returning to his work. BANG! BANG! BANG!

    That was weirdly fun. See, the point isn’t to write what someone else has written or to write something in a similar style or approach it in a slightly different matter, or even to write about the same story. The point is to write a story that remains technically true to the central points of the original, but is completely different at the same time. And it’s up to you to decide which points are the central ones.

  5.  

    SOMEBODY POST ANOTHER VERSION!

  6.  

    NEVER! :P

  7.  

    Right, you’re next. This is fun!