“This has probably been done before, but that is not stopping me, oh no.
Here’s what I would like to do. I want to create a story that branches out in a variety of different, unexpected ways. I don’t know how realistic it is, but that’s what I’m aiming for. Hopefully, at least one thread of the story can make a decent number of hops before it dies out.
If you are one of the carriers of this story virus (i.e. you have been tagged and choose to contribute to it), you will have one responsibility, in addition to contributing your own piece of the story: you will have to tag at least one person that continues your story thread. So, say you tag five people. If four people decide to not participate, it’s okay, as long as the fifth one does. And if all five participate, well that’s five interesting threads the story spins off into.
Not a requirement, but something your readers would appreciate: to help people trace your own particular thread of the narrative, it will be helpful if you include links to the chapters preceding yours.”
I woke up hungry. I pulled my bedroom curtain to the side and looked out on a hazy morning. I dragged myself into the kitchen, in search of something to eat. I reached for a jar of applesauce sitting next to the sink, and found it very cold to the touch. I opened the jar and realized it was frozen. (Splotchy)
I was used to the house being quite cold in the mornings, as the night log usually burns out around one AM when I am dreaming cozily under my covers, not normally waking to put a new one on until morning. I was surprised because on the rare occasions that it actually had reached sub-freezing temperatures in the house, I had awakened in the night to restart the fire. I would have been worried about the pipes before P-Day, but there hadn’t been running water in two years and that was one of the few advantages to being dependent on rainwater, no pipes. (Freida Bee)
Shivering, I moved through the cloud of my nearly-crystallizing breath over to the frost-encrusted window. Unable to see outside, I feebly attempted to brush the flakes away with my sleeve. I sighed, the warm exhalation upon the upper panes only further decreasing visibility. I thoughtlessly tried my fingernails, having forgotten that I continuously bite them when nervous. I’ve recently been nervous a lot. I didn’t know why, and failed to give it a second thought. Shuffling across the well-worn wooden planks, strangely as cold as the jar, I opened a drawer to grab a spoon and begin the task at hand, chipping away at the frost. After some moments, I stopped to peek outside, managing to see only white. The window was again frozen.
There’s no way it can be that cold, I thought to myself. I began to chip once more, with the same result. Frustrated, I sprinted the ten feet back to the drawer, taking a larger soup spoon and returned to my assault on the ice. Harder and harder I pushed the spoon into the wintry glaze, intermittently stopping to wipe the chill sweat from my brow, pushing harder, my arms flailing upwards, now coming down as if wielding an axe, ignoring the stinging salt of perspiration in my eyes, the ice growing along with my anger, overcome by a violence, a berserker rage, up and down I swung that makeshift blade into the white, into the red, grunting, screaming, my hands sliced open as the spoon blasted through the broken glass.
I didn’t see anything but the dew-haunted lawn before I slumped down, fainting on the cold wooden floor. (Randal Graves)
I awoke to the touch of my cat, Scheiser, as he gently licked my cold cheek. His rough tongue against my cold, sensitive skin jolted me like electricity, popping my eyes wide open.
“Hey fella,” I mumbled, propping myself up on one elbow. Scheiser purred in my ear, and I scratched his forehead with numb fingers.
I noticed the window was still encrusted with ice… if anything, it had thickened while I was out. I got myself onto all fours, then pulled myself up on the old couch. This was nuts. The lawn outside had been dew-laden, yet things were frozen in here.
Scheiser was at the kitchen door, meowing to be let out. Why not, I thought. Better to have him do his wretched business outside than in. Feeling sluggish, I shuffled to the door, unlocked it and opened it. Cool morning air filled my nostrils as I looked out on the front “yard”… not a speck of ice anywhere to be seen in the dirt and weeds. It actually seemed kind of balmy. I followed Scheiser outside into the day. (Snave)
“Scheiser,” I said, “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.”
“Nyerh,” spoke Scheiser, rubbing against my legs.
I looked down and saw a drop of crimson on his glossy black fur. Blood was dripping from my hands. Another drop hit the cat, this time on his head, right between his ears. His whole body flinched in that way cats have of telling you that you are finished petting them, for now. He stalked off, flicking his tail, while I stared dumbly at my hands.
It was as if my brain had also frozen inside the house, and was just now beginning to thaw, because I suddenly remembered my insane attack on a defenseless jar of applesauce. I really must do something about my OCD, I thought, as I followed the blood splatters back to the kitchen.
The cold assaulted me as soon as I opened the door. I propped it open, sliding the antique iron doorstop over with one blood-splashed slipper. My teeth chattered, my breath sending frosty puffs ahead of me as I picked my way around the shattered glass. At the hall, I flipped the lightswitch with my elbow, not wanting to bloody the wall, but no light came on.
I trudged down the dark hallway to the bathroom. I grabbed a towel and wiped my hands. Despite all the blood, my hands weren’t painful. They were numb with cold, but surely, I thought, not enough to anesthetize them? The bathroom window was frosted solid, but at least I had enough light to rummage for bandages in the deep wall cabinet.
Sha-whop! The walls rattled. I froze. I knew that sound. It was the slam of the kitchen door. (Candace)
“Bloody fucking hell!”
Who was in my kitchen, and why was he cursing in British, and who had shut the door?
Still dripping blood, carrying the bandages in one hand and a heavy-duty mag-light in the other, I slowly entered the kitchen.
A tall, disgustingly sleek man looked at me through disturbingly yellow eyes.
He wore nothing but a red collar with a little silver bell on it.
His ears were pointy.
He stared at his fingers then his face lit up with glee as he picked up a can of tuna and a can opener and began experimenting.
Suddenly, an icy cold kitchen seemed the least of my problems. (Pooks)
No, that couldn’t be Sheiser. I’d had him neutered. This bloke, he had a full package. “Well, well, well, just look what the cat drug in,” he teased as he called my dear little Sheiser to dinner.
“He’s allergic to tuna!” I screamed as Sheiser approached him.
“Carry on, then,” he said with a devious smile while he proceeded to feed my cat the poison. He turned his back to me as I lept to save my cat. That’s when I saw the black wings on his back, crumpled up like an umbrella.
I grabbed the jar of applesauce, held it by the neck and slammed it on the granite countertop. My Sheiser, being skittish, took off but not without laying some major scratch on the bloke’s bare ass.
Those leathery appendages expanded in a fury like a delta plane, filling my kitchen from wall-to-wall with wing.
This was happening fast, but not too fast for me to wonder why the devil always appears with a British accent?
He exposed his teeth, a rack of crooked, sharp, saliva oozing mess as he hissed my name. Nobody hisses my name. I lunged at him with my broken jar and as he snatched it, my fingers plunged between his neck and that red collar. As I pulled tighter and tighter and the bell popped off, I thought of my courageous friend who would love nothing better than to get her hands on this dark creature.
I cried out her name, “Anita Marie!”