Holy cow, I have been infected by yet another strain of this crazy virus!

And away we go…

I had been shuffling around the house for a few hours and already felt tired. The doorbell rang. I opened the front door and saw a figure striding away from the house, quickly and purposefully. I looked down and saw a bulky envelope. I picked it up. The handwriting was smudged and cramped, and I could only make out a few words. (Splotchy)

“Meet me at two o’clock at Grisham Square. Don’t be late!”

What? I already had an appointment at that time. In fact, that was the only reason I had even taken off work that Wednesday. But, when I saw the photos, I knew I had to go and see what the hell was going on. Oh gosh, now I wish I hadn’t, but how was I to know then that Elizabeth would take this whole thing so far?” (Freida Bee)

I saw I had an hour to go to get there so went inside, and grabbed my bag, my video camera, and just to be safe, my new taser gun that my Dad gave me for Christmas. As I drove out of town to Grisham Square, I remembered how all this began. Or should I say, began to go wrong.

Elizabeth was always someone who could talk me into anything. Her mischievous smile and “I dare you” eyes have gotten me in trouble many times before. Now looking at those damn photos, I couldn’t help thinking she had done it again!

“Let’s go out there,” she kept saying. “No one will know,” she said running her hand along my waist like she always does, knowing how it melts me. Damn her! Damn her golden brown and oh so soft spankable hide! In the back of my mind, I knew things would come to trouble. They always do with her. I should never have gone with her out to that abandoned prison for that video shoot. With all that time we were there and with all those depraved things we did, I always thought we were alone. Now I know. I was wrong. (M.Yu)

Look, lovin spoofuls of depredation are sometimes only sexy if you think someone is looking on. Proferring a grade. I often wonder if sex was really, really dull before the onset of celluloid pictures, or if it was better thanks to neither partner performing, rather just doing. Who knows? Our grandparents probably just rutted a lot. Though this is something I’d rather not think about.

But our secret was out. And does it matter if it’s a secret? What’s the purpose of a secret? To hide or to protect? Would I care? I don’t want to hide. Protection is another matter altogether. (Jess)

2:15pm.
I stood there, hand in my pocket on the camera, bag at my feet. She was nowhere in sight. The square was clogged with businessmen, street musicians and protesters. How many of them knew our secret, or would know it soon enough? No sign of Elizabeth. She was late.

2:47pm.
I stashed the camera in my bag, pulled out the taser.

3:13pm.
Where was she? I had to wait for her. I couldn’t move. I had to stay put. I scanned the crowd fruitlessly. The protesters were making a lot of noise, and some police in riot gear showed up, standing just beyond the perimeter of the square, near a grove of trees.

3:22pm.
I was getting dizzy. I leaned against a lightpole, hand in my pocket clutched around the taser like it was feeding me electrical energy.

I never really knew her. I mean, we were close, we were intimate (sure, sometimes for money, but still). Who was she? What was I expecting would happen? Who was I, for that matter? I felt woozy. I took a deep breath and tried to forget my fatigue.

I chuckled at my deteriorated physical and mental state. Elizabeth would laugh too, if she knew how square, how skittish I had become. Afraid, paranoid, overmedicated. I couldn’t climb three stairs without breaking a sweat now.

The protesters started shouting. The police formed a line and took a step into the square.

And then I saw her — Elizabeth — fifty yards away — staring at me, and smiling. She hadn’t aged a bit. And she wasn’t alone. (Splotchy)

Please continue this virus.

I tag:

Deadspot
McGone
Dale
The Idea Of Progress
Snape

A continuation of Story Virus v2.

I have been re-infected by one of my direct infectees.

I had been shuffling around the house for a few hours and already felt tired. The doorbell rang. I opened the front door and saw a figure striding away from the house, quickly and purposefully. I looked down and saw a bulky envelope. I picked it up. The handwriting was smudged and cramped, and I could only make out a few words.
(Splotchy)

I looked up and down the street but didn’t see any delivery truck, or any car for that matter. No FedEx, no UPS , no creepy-looking porno’d-out conversion van with a half-assed delivery service sign taped to its side. Nothing. It’s like delivery man just disappeared. I stepped back inside, re-set the deadbolts and took a closer look at the envelope.

Mentally I ran through the checklist of letter bomb warning signs. The handwriting on the envelope, smudged and cramped as it was, was laid out in a tiny, obsessively neat block lettering. It practically screamed recently-de-institutionalized loner with time on his hands. No ticking or whirring sounds, that’s good. No odd smells, no leaks or stains on the package. Check. Weight seemed evenly distributed, that’s good too. I decided to open it.

Inside I found a plane ticket to Pensacola, a business card for a lawyer in Niceville, five crisp $100 bills and a four page handwritten note. Well. This was different. I poured a cup of coffee, threw some meat to the dogs to stop em barking, and sat down to read.
(Bubs)

My addition:

The handwriting of the letter was different than the envelope. It was more rushed, erratic. And it was all in Russian. I could speak a little Russian because of the company I used to keep, but couldn’t read it to save my life. I knew some people that could translate for me, but I wasn’t about to see them again. Or did one of them write the note? Was it Dimitri the Finger? Petrov? Ivankovich?

I looked at the lawyer’s card — “Tom Ely” — how whitebread, how American. The address said Niceville, but the phone number’s area code was New Jersey. I dialed and waited. My dogs fought over a leftover bone outside, growling.

“Hello, this is Tom Ely, I am sorry I have missed your call…”

I didn’t recognize the voice. It had the barest trace of an accent. Most people wouldn’t pick up on it. But I did.

The Russians. What was I in for? I hung up.

Was I just going to sit here, waiting? Or was I going to be a good little dog when some person unseen rang my bell?

The ticket was for today. I could make the flight if I left immediately. I packed a bag and caught a cab to the airport.
(Splotchy)

Please continue this story virus.

I tag:

Tim
SamuraiFrog
Some Guy
Cowboy the Cat
Manx
Lulu
Doc
PJ

It was last winter when the story virus first hit this blog.

I am afraid to say with the warming weather I have not been paying attention to my health. Consequently, I have been stricken with another one of those insidious bugs.

For those unfamiliar with a story virus, here’s a recap:

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.

There always has to be a start of a story, so here it is.

***

I had been shuffling around the house for a few hours and already felt tired. The doorbell rang. I opened the front door and saw a figure striding away from the house, quickly and purposefully. I looked down and saw a bulky envelope. I picked it up. The handwriting was smudged and cramped, and I could only make out a few words.

***

Please continue this story virus.

I tag:

FranIAm
Freida Bee
Becca
Dr MVM
Bubs
The folks at ultra-mundane
Rider
p0nk
Vikkitikkitavi
Patrick