Subdued Intrinsic

Personal Note: My pillow is at least 26 years old. So is my teddy-cat, Charmkin. No, I do not want to hear about the dust mites. Spare me.

Ten at-one-time high-profile writers are sent to a retreat in the backwoods of some mid-western state. To help instill a sense of community within the group of story-tellers the well-meaning, too smiley organizer puts up a huge dry-erase board and encourages the group to write a Next Line story*

The writers draw numbers out of a hat to determine the order in which they'll add to the story. The line-up turns out like this:

1. Kanye West**
2. Stephen King
3. Jude Devereaux
4. Robert Jordan
5. Stephenie Meyer

And the story begins thusly:

"I'ma let you get back your writing but I wan't y'all to recognize my book is better than all y'all's...but only 'cause Beyonce didn't put one out yet. [Kanye leaves the room]

What the hell? Who let that guy have the marker? For God's sake, give me that thing. [Mr. King puts a big X through Kanye's lines]

The story begins (again) thusly:

He hated the birds. Their small, glassy eyes reflected his image back at him, backward and upside down. Somehow the picture looked more like him than the real thing. [Mr. King stops and passes the marker to Ms. Devereaux]

[Ms. Devereaux smiles mischievously at Mr. King and squeezes an 's' before the 'h' in the opening "He". She changes all the pronouns into the feminine form] The story continues thusly:

SHe hated the birds. Their small, glassy eyes reflected her image back at her, backward and upside down. Somehow the picture looked more like her than the real thing. Only fatter, because Jen spent too much time running to be that pudgy. The only things her sleek body ate with enthusiasm were miles, all the better to attract the eyes of the muscle-dripping men who ran alongside her.

[Ms. Devereaux stops writing and offers the marker to Mr. Jordan, who chews on the end of it while he studies the board. Finally he picks up the story, which continues thusly:]

SHe hated the birds. Their small, glassy eyes reflected her image back at her, backward and upside down. Somehow the picture looked more like her than the real thing. Only fatter, because Jen spent too much time running to be that pudgy. The only things her sleek body ate with enthusiasm were miles, all the better to attract the eyes of the muscle-dripping men who ran alongside her. Jeniver Corliss needed the brutes to notice her. The diversion wouldn't work if she didn't capture their attention entirely, letting them snap at her elf-quick heels, just out of reach. She couldn't let their minds ponder when the druid priest, Rolf, had disappeared from her flank.

[Mr. Jordan thinks for a bit, then adds in some more punctuation before wiping the marker down with his shirt and waving it in the direction of Ms. Meyer. Ms. Meyer, however, declines. "I brought my own!", she perks, and pulls out a sparkly blue marker from her purse. The glittery ink looks very bright next to the black of the previous lines.]

SHe hated the Birds, their small glassy eyes reflecting her image back at her, backward and upside down, only fatter, because Jen spent too much time running to be that pudgy. The only things her sleek body ate with enthusiasm were miles, all the better to attract the eyes if the muscle-dripping men running alongside her because Jeniver Corliss needed the brutes to notice her (the diversion wouldn't work if she didn't capture their attention entirely, letting them snap at her elf-quick heels, just out of their reach). She couldn't let their minds ponder when the druid priest, Rolf, had disappeared from her flank. Jen wouldn't let him down, not when his last words to her before he'd snuck down the alternate path had been professions of love.

"Don't be afraid, Jeniver," he'd whispered in her ear, keeping up with her easily. "I won't let anything happen to you, I don't care what others think about us. I'm here for you forever." And then he'd left, into the thick, dewy undergrowth of the wet forest.

[Ms. Meyer sits down on her little log seat, smiling, pleased. Mr. King scowls, looking like he might begin cursing again. Ms. Devereaux offers Mr. Jordan a mint to suck on.]

[There's a disturbance outside, a rackety slap of something against the door. The knob shivers and then tears out of the wood. A large Great Wit*** humps its way to the board. It snorts, a bubbly, snorkly sound, and uses a fin to grip the marker, proceeding to make comments.

"This doesn't give me a reason to care." "Too much description about characters, not enough plot." "Where's the conflict?" "Bless my flippers, ALIENS IN CHAPTER FOURTEEN!"

Finally the shark circles the entire story and notates, "Form Rejection", before taking a bite out of one corner of the board.

1. Disclaimer: I love every one of these writers, and have at least one of each's book in my collection. I wouldn't "pick on" them if I didn't.

*Where each person writes one or two lines, then must let someone else have a go. Usually the previous writer folds down the paper so only his line can be seen, making the next person have base her writing on only a sentence of so.

**Kanye stole his spot from Dan Brown, and since technically Kanye's written a book, they let him stay.

***Cousin of the Great White shark, only snarkier.