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One to Story Game

I want to try something I've recently thought up. Basically, this game goes like this. A person, in this case, me, will start with a paragraph telling a simple story or action. After the paragraph, I'll end with a single word. The word can be as hard and complex as we can think of, or as easy as pie. The next person will start a new paragraph using that word, all the while keeping in flow with the story. We can conversatins as well. It's up to us to write it like we would a paragraph or conversation in our on story. Integrity people. We keep going until no one is able to continue. The last person to be able to answer a word is the winner! Here, I'll star with something easy.


The hanging lamp in the interrogation room swung back and forth, the shadows of the interrogator and suspect dancing again the white-washed walls. The one way mirror which everyone knew from watching television reflected the two person. The nervous man in a ragged coat and torn jeans, with his unkempt, furly beard and hair was obviously picked up off the streets. Sitting opposite the table from him was a detective in a ironed suit and tie, a striking contrast.


(And whoever's interested will continue from the word he! Have fun!)

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("He" who? Detective or suspect?)


(Up to you really. See where you go.)


[He] stood in the corner observing his underling conduct the interrogation, and pondering whether to choose the telephone book or the battery. He smiled to himself as he imagined the nervous man's electrified nipples but, on further thought, decided to choose the telephone book because his underling interrogator had such thick, powerful biceps; and whenever he flexed them he felt all tingly in the groin---but he was awoken from the fantasy as the man, in between sobs, began to confess:

"It was me! I admit it! It was me!"




"I'm sorry, come again?" the detective asked.

The man leaped over the table to try and grab the detective's hands. The detective pushed his chair back and out of range.

"I don't want the book," the criminal said while grasping desperately at the air. "I dooon't waaa--"

The detective glanced at the corner of the room, then back at the man, and grinned. He stood up, looming over the man. "It's not gonna to be that easy, pal." His voice had a nasally timbre. "What you did--there's a buncha folks doin' it too. Get my drift?"



"The good book!" he cried from the corner, delicately extracting a KJV from his pocket, and licking the tip of his forefinger. He fingered through the pages as far as John 3:16 and then, as his underling picked up his own book (the telephone book from the corner), began to recite the biblical text; the telephone book thrown violently onto the table before the whimpering destitute. His underling strode menacingly to the table, punching the text and glaring into the destitute’s eyes as he spoke; his words mingling with God's:

"There's the telephone book, you psychopath! If you admit it, then point to the phone number of the poor bitch. The poor bitch who you--wait, what are you admitting to?"




"To...to murdering the President's...?"



"Oh for the love of-" the detective wanted to say God, but the maniac with the bible in hand had him reconsider. "Do you even know why you're here Mr. Rhodes?" the detective slid three pictures of a woman laying in a pool of her own blood in a motel room.



Confused, Mr. Rhodes squinted: "Listen, guy, I think you've made a mistake. I'm not Mr. Rhodes, I'm the president. President Rhodes, y'hear me? And dude in the corner is right, I did murder the president's chances of winning the next election, but that's not a crime, is it? I was sick of being part of the machine, man. Being a machine man, so to speak. But I've done worse things. If only you'd let me confess!"

"You're raving," the detective spat at him. "Do you want more of the book?!"



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