So, I've done this before, and I'm too lazy right now to look up what I called it way back when. In a nutshell, I will begin writing a piece of fiction, and it is up to you – creative commenters and friends – to keep it going. This being a Friday, I don't expect a whole lot of responses. I'll keep it up and maybe chime in on occasion to keep things rolling (or make things roll) until I've got something else to say.
The one ground rule: no lead character can die. Say it with me: no lead character can die. That's the only hard-and-fast rule. Besides that, keep it fun and interesting, and everything will be fine. And away we go ...
Swinging the Battle Axe
Beleagured doesn't begin to describe how Milton Simpernuckle felt. Beat down? Worn out? Downtrodden? Semantics alone could not tell the tale of Milton's woe. Nor could the eight-inch scar running from his left cheek to his sagging shoulder blade. There weren't enough words in the world to express the magnitude of pain, anguish, fear and hunger he felt in his soul.
But Jeanine had vowed to try. She was ...
...used to documenting the triumphs and tragedies of the residents of their small town, but this was different. She tried to remain professional, even impartial, but Jeanine could never forget how she and Milton...
Had shared several moments, that could be described only as..a CONNECTION. She couldn't explain it. She'd moved back to this sleepy town, after running away at 18, and swearing she'd never look back. And here she was again, 30 years old, divorced, back in town working for the local newspaper, when she swore this would never happen to her.
Now that she was back, though, she was glad. Meeting Milton, seeing the way he looked at her with those eyes, beaming forth that smile. The holes where he two front teeth should have been betrayed little Milton's youth, but not his struggles. He was not like other seven year olds. Not after...
...had met.
Her instincts as a reporter have always been good, some consider the best. With this in mind, her editor sent her out on a story that he felt no one else could handle. A story about a man destined for greatness but had many shortcomings. A story about Milton.
She could not forget that first encounter. His eyes...
...his eyes had the steely glint of a hired gun. Not the eyes Jeanine remembered not so many years ago. Those baby blues had caressed her body; those lashes had gently brushed her cheeks. What had happened, where was the man that used to live in this worn-out shell? Jeanine arranged to meet Milton in a local bar, one that they both knew well...
... and they both hoped that perhaps a cocktail and some familiar surroundings would help them loosen up a little bit.
"Milton," she said, "I have the feeling this is going to be very difficult for me."
"I know you do," he said, with a slight whistle through the gap in his teeth. "I sssssupposssse it will be difficult for me, too. Sssssshould we jussssst sssssstart?"
Sometime during the conversation, Jeanine got an odd feeling. She noticed a stranger had come into the bar, took a seat across the room from them, and ordered a tequila. He seemed intent on staring at the photo of the Rubinesque nude behind the bar, but Jeanine could tell he was also listening to their every word. Milton's hand suddenly developed a tremor and he shifted a half-turn away from the stranger. On a bar napkin, Milton was frantically scribbling something...