Directions: Non-writing players announce words out loud at random, and writer(s) must then incorporate these words into their automatic text.
(Word shouters: SC, HC, MB, BL. Story writers: K, AM, JF)
VERSION #1
There once was a shameless cookie. A knight in King Arthur’s court he was. He had a glass eye. It was made of plastic trapezoids. There were knights. Two intersected. A third was made of sushi. The fourth was parallel. The fifth liked pizza. The sixth was lost, yet to be found. The seventh had big feet. The eighth was quivering and wet. The ninth had ear lobes. The tenth was but a puppet. The eleventh was a jelly belly. The twelve had the talisman of ancient cartilage.
He knew he had to quest. Towards the headless castle. Scumbags were the parapets, tall and grimy. The spider of trash crawled its walls. The wall was made of aesthetic overripe tomatoes. Squandered married lambs. Hazelnuts. It was a mess.
Beyond the wall was the squid. It spoke in disappearing ink. Eternity was found in its fractures. The twelfth knights tattoo of a bird spoke. It said tattoo. Sunbeams lit it. The ink grew spiky. The knight pulled out arsenic. The ink millipedeed passionate tulips. The squid was shipwrecked, space was all it saw behind its eyes.
Next were the germinating flowers. They had toes as petals. Mysterious, said the twelfth night, such garrulous aborted embryos. The flowers engorged. The knight took one to nose. Autonomous and saucy they grew, up his nose. His nose grew marble, trickling fragrant flakes. He saw himself in the precious mirror: a prescient flagrant fake. He was napping like a painting. The gold rush came out his nose.
VERSION #2
The tidal wave loomed over the water house, sixty feet in the air, and squirrel clamshells on the crags shook in fear at the immensity. The solar system turned, its desperate gravity pulling on the wave like a disembodied doll arm. An epiphany then—and not enough pages to write it in—running with bulky bookmarks will not make you a smarter cookie. The shamelessness of King Arthur’s glass eye is enough to prove it. The old kings intersecting trapezoids were enough to cook sushi in parallel. I am lost in thought, the king is like bigfoot. Quivering in the mountain, earlobes perked like puppets pulled by a weak, gelatinous scoundrel. My ancient talisman makes cartilage of the headless scumbags surrounding me. Spiders crawl up my spine which bursts like an over-ripe tomato, the aesthetic squandered by the old tale of Mary’s lamb, who was so fond of hazelnuts. The squid blinds my memory with disappearing ink and I melt into eternity from loss of this fracture of my memory. The tattoo upon me shouts like a bird, the sunbeam shines down on the millipedes wrapped passionately around my fingers. The tulips bloom on shipwrecks left behind by the mare of misfortune, but fear not, for germination and the mystery within shall make new embryos of us all, and we shall not abort the engorgement of this new knowledge, The knowledge that makes us into autonomous, flagrant flakes. Napping no longer, we rise like elephants in the gold rush.
Version #3
A tide water was coming. It brought with it leftover clams and the memory of a solar wind. A desperate disembodied epiphany of doll appendages reached out from the deep, and kept running. A shameless nostalgia for King Arthur hung in the air like an intersecting glass-eye trapezoid in the parallel night. Doodle, lost in the ocean. A quivering sound scoundrel puppet squiggles its ancient gelatinous cartilage into the headless scumbag night, and I am become the overripe tomato. Squandered aesthetic lambs to the hazelnut slaughter. These words will fade like fractures from eternity, like a disappearing ink tattoo.
Sunbeams in his ass.
Arsenic.
Shipwreck.
Garrulous Embryonic Engorgement
It’s the way of things.
