You're sitting around a campfire and someone just starts telling a story. Totally made-up. Then a pause...and the next person takes up the thread. Suddenly, you're telling the story.
The linear fiction project is the same thing, only there isn't a campfire, and you can't actually see the other story-tellers.
Although we're still experimenting, we are guessing that fairly brief additions will result in a fun and fast-paced story. We recommend two to four paragraphs per chapter.
Want to add your own chapter to the linear fiction project? Click here.
|By: Chris Herdt||email: firstname.lastname@example.org||Date: 3/18/01, 6:05 PM|
Lester Sweeny, a professor of astronomy at the University of Dubuque, loved coffee. He loved coffee so much that he decided to take a two-week vacation at the end of last December to Neiva, Columbia, to take a guided tour of a coffee plantation.
|By: Nim||email: email@example.com||Date: 3/28/01, 3:01 AM|
After thrusting his taught duffel bag into Lucinda's gaping trunk, Lester wearily entered her [passenger] seat. Not only had he been travelling for the last day or so (and subsequently malnourished to the point that he considered a Payday and a Mellow Yellow to be a square meal)but his project of utilizing his vast knowledge of the cosmos to predict the paths of concurrence and non-concurrence between himself and his doppelganger produced earlier in his scientific career had delivered some strange results before he left for vacation and he hadn't time to properly mull over them with a cuppa joe. Why potholders, of all things?
|By: David||email: firstname.lastname@example.org||Date: 3/29/01, 5:17 PM|
"Something troubles you, Senor?" Lucinda asked. She steered the jeep along the rutted dirt road.
|By: Nim||email: email@example.com||Date: 3/31/01, 4:14 AM|
Seated at the bar in an utterly ramshackle tavern in a dumbly tiny vilage in the south of France, Lester Sweeny's doppleganger remarked, "ouch."
|By: Chris||email: firstname.lastname@example.org||Date: 3/31/01, 11:15 PM|
The evil doppelganger, whose name, by the way, is Pierre Mauvais, cursed loudly.
|By: nim||email: email@example.com||Date: 4/1/01, 4:03 PM|
The dialtone sounded in Pierre's ear with a slightly rustic edge to it, as if it too had spent too many nights sucking complantively on a hand rolled ciggarette in a musky French bistro as the cold winter winds lashed the surrounding countryside with the merciless vigor of a housecat served the wrong brand of cat food. It sounded again.
|By: Chris||email: firstname.lastname@example.org||Date: 4/17/01, 9:24 PM|
Meanwhile, back in Neiva, Lucinda described his accommodations.
|By: Sammy Famous||email: email@example.com||Date: 5/2/01, 2:47 PM|
It was only after arriving at Lucinda's small ranch house, a little drywall-and-palm-leaves affair, that Lester understood how truly weary he was. Ever since he was in college, he had carried a portable Turkish press kit with him that he and a similarly-caffeine-addled classmate converted to work with hot tap water. Before boarding the plane Lester had thought it more than appropriate to whip up a special "mud bath" version of his favorite Brazillian blend. He was correct in his belief that it would help with his travels. Just the noise of his own chattering teeth entertained him for most of the flight. In the seemingly alien world that rolled away in great green mountains around Lucinda's small but comely house, though, he stood as just a bared hull of his former self, as if the true Lester had burned away in a sepia tinted exhaust trail which lay beside his plane's own plume, leaving only a full bladder and ragged scorch marks where his personality once resided.
|By: Chris||email: firstname.lastname@example.org||Date: 6/1/01, 1:41 PM|
The braying was unbearable. Never before had Lester's ears been exposed to such unwarranted abuse.
|By: chris||email: email@example.com||Date: 6/17/01, 3:10 AM|
"Well, how about some of that espresso, then? I want to see if it kicks like a mule," Lester said.
|By: Chris||email: firstname.lastname@example.org||Date: 7/10/01, 9:17 PM|
Lester Sweeny examined the cupboard. There were small knife-marks that spelled out "8:30 PM". PM - Pierre Mauvais. No doubt about it, his doppelganger was here.
|By: David||email: email@example.com||Date: 11/30/01, 10:06 AM|
"Lucinda!" Lester called out, shaking her shoulder. "Man, that's the worst caffiene crash I've ever seen," he muttered.
|By: Chris||email: firstname.lastname@example.org||Date: 4/17/04, 1:09 AM|
Lester awoke, bound and gagged, in the dank recesses of an old coffee mine. Lucinda was tied up next to him, her wrists bound to his.
|By: Chris||email: email@example.com||Date: 4/18/04, 3:27 PM|
Actually, Lester thought, why try to remove the gag? It tasted like clean cotton--maybe it could act as a filter, to remove some of the oils, just like the unbleached paper filters he used at home?
|By: Chris||email: firstname.lastname@example.org||Date: 4/18/04, 3:40 PM|
Lester stopped when he heard Lucinda say, "Lester, what you doing? You loco?"