Okay folks; this one's just for fun! Having trouble getting started on your own work? Battling writer's block? Need a quick warm-up exercise to get those creative juices flowing? Consider contributing to Book Country's very own never-ending story! I suspect this will prove to be quite the gonzo work: an absurdist exercise in clashing tones, themes, characterization and events. All the better! No one's going to be critiquing this narrative, that's for sure. So there's no reason to fret about posting your carefully considered, oftentimes agonized-over words in public. By the same token, this is a writing exercise, so give us your considered best—howsoever manic, mannered, literarily-minimalist or florid; grittily realistic or melting-clocks surreal.  

Let's keep these rules as simple as possible. The contributing writer:

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 1. May add 10-30 new sentences to the ongoing narrative. (No more; no less.)

2. May add to this narrative once a month. (Not every 30 days: once a month. Postings on May 31st & June 1st would be allowed, as would postings on April 15th & May 15th.) 

3. You may end a chapter anywhere you wish.

4. You may begin a new chapter whenever you think one is called for.

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That's it!

As the creator of this thread, I have the distinct honor and privilege of starting us off. So, without further ado or delay:

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“That's the great thing about the upper peninsula of Michigan,” said Harry Simmons, settling back deeper into his leather recliner, frosted glass of beer in hand. “Nothing ever happens here, save for the occasional stranded motorist who runs out of gas between filling stations. Isn't that why we left Chicago? To find a little peace and quiet amongst the trees and lakes, 'far from the madding crowd' ?”

Judy sighed, her half-completed Sudoku puzzle book face down on the couch beside her, opened to a point midway between pages one and four-hundred. “I know Harry; it's just that occasionally I miss city life. Don't you? The bookstores and restaurants, shops and theaters, sports stadiums and concert halls. Things are a little too quiet up here, I'm afraid. I swear, sometimes I can hear the mice twitching their tails in the walls.”

Harry chuckled, took a gulp of his freshly-poured beer, set the glass back down and swiped at the foam adhering to a fulsome gray beard and mustache. “At least—”

A whistling, high-pitched shriek grew in intensity, startling them both into silence. A half-second later came a reverberating boom that blew out their picture window and caused divers knickknacks, collectible glassware and wall-mounted Bradford Exchange plates throughout the house to shatter on the hardwood floor in a series of lesser explosions. 

--edited by Carl E. Reed on 12/24/2015, 1:25 AM--

Ooooh, this sounds like fun!

Let's see if I can contribute:

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Both Judy and Harry fell to the floor, Harry on top of his wife to shield her from the shards of glass and debris raining down from the ceiling.

"What's happening," Judy cried.

Harry opened his mouth to answer, then shut it with a click as his eyes widened--no, he was not seeing . . . he couldn't possibly be seeing . . .

Glowing blue spheres, two of them, floating in through the shattered window; they were tiny, barely visible in the dust, two sparkling globs that seemed undeterred by the mayhem going on--

Abruptly, the mayhem stopped; the explosions, the shuddering of the floor and table, all of it stopped, leaving a deafening silence in its place. Only his and Judy's harsh breathing broke it.

Judy squirmed beneath him. "Get off, could you?"

"I--"

His voice faded as the two spheres flared, blinding him. When the light faded, two humanoid creatures stood before him, dressed in frilly white shirts and tan, thigh-hugging leather trousers, one male, the other female. Hair a shocking white, the male's short and sticking up in various directions, the female's long and silky. Ears oblong and unnaturally big for the sizes of their heads.

"Whew, sorry 'bout that," said the female, in a voice sultry and low. "We didn't mean for our entrance to come with a bang."

"Yes, 'twas an accident," agreed the male.

"Who, what--I don't--" Harry stuttered.

"Forgive us." The female bowed. "I am Civia, and this is Biran. We are from Kelian, in the world of the Fae. We've come to ask your aid."

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There, let's see where that takes the story

@Nice job, Amber! Heh! Let's see who takes it from here . . . Anything can—and no doubt will—happen!

 (I feel like Stan Lee, ending half my sentences with exclamation marks nowadays . . .)

Thanks, Carl

I like to think I've improved since the first time you read my writing, lol.

I'm really interested to see where this story goes! C'mon, all you creative people! Contribute!

Harry, kneeling now, plucked rubble from his lips and spat.  "Aid?" The arch of that single syllable indicated astonishment, which was certainly understandable, but also, clearly, offense, and not just at the ungodly interruption of his placid afternoon of beer and contemplation. The posh lakeside property was only a rental, and their homeowner's insurance surely wasn't going to cover this sort of damage. Also, the front of his shirt and the lap of his trousers were beer-soaked, which was both uncomfortable and embarrassing. He repeated the syllable again with even more arch. "Aid?" An explanation was called for, something more than "twas an accident."

The snowy-haired female poised a delicate hand on a sleek, leather-clad hip and eyed the room like a critical real-estate agent. "This isn't right." Her sultry purr snarled on a harsh burr of annoyance. She pointed a long finger at a flat-screen TV mounted between two dark wood bookcases. "Look at the tech," she complained. "This is either the wrong planet or the wrong century." 

The male undid the clasp of a pouch that hung from his shoulder, and a swatch of rust-red fur snaked up his arm, bunched on his shoulder, and uncoiled.  A creature, about the length and shape of a ferret, perched beside Biran's right ear and peered out. The jet-button eyes met Harry's, then flicked away, taking in at a glance the impersonal furnishings, the faux wood paneling, the woman crouched beside him still goggling up without comprehension. The tiny face yawned once, then emitted a bright burst of animal chatter. 

Biran shook his head with irritation. "This can't be right, Quixsel. I mean, look at them." He was staring directly at Harry. 

The creature gave a scratch, scrabbling the fur beneath his perked ear with a hind paw. It chirped, whistled, then made a quick musical chuckle.

Biran shrugged his unencumbered shoulder.  "Okay. You're the boss."

--edited by Atthys Gage on 12/31/2015, 12:33 PM--

@Atthys: A very creative and amusing contribution to our collective ongoing narrative! 

What happens next? Only you know, Book Country writer . . . 

--edited by Carl E. Reed on 12/30/2015, 8:10 PM--

Thank you, Carl.  We have befuddled humans,  hip fae-folk aliens (All right, technically I made them aliens, but I had to wrest this thing firmly in the direction of sci-fi), and stuff blowing up.  Good start!

 All we need now is some new contributors.

Anyone wanna try?