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Hey, I have an idea...
#1
...Why not do something creative?

My idea is simple. One person proposes a very basic scene from a story, maybe a sentence or two of backround, and the next person has to try to create that scene as vividly as they can. For example.

Idea: Man is about to jump off a building and commit suicide.

In writing: He'd had enough. Life seemed no longer to hold the appeal to keep it. The wind rushed over John, tearing at his jacket and making his hair sway and dance. He climbed up onto the railing, and spread his arms wide. The street below was packed with people and life, unawares of the man about to land in their midst. Another gust of wind hit John, his clothing flapping wildly and giving him the appearance of an Angel about to descend from the Heavens.

John took that moment to recite the names of all the people who'd led him to this; his boss who fired him, his wife who'd left him, his father who had never cared for him. The thought of all of them gathered at his funeral, shedding tears for him, CARING about him for once made him happy, happier than he'd been in a long time. A smile on his face, he closed his eyes, a tear leaking through them. He'd make them all care, care for once, and he could rest in happiness.

In his world, John was unaware of the crowd pointing up at him from 20 floors below. Women screamed, men held them, children cried. A cop car arrived on the scene and its occupants rushed into the building, feebly attempting to get to John in time to save him.

It was not to be. At long last, John took a deep breathe, bent his knees, and propelled himself off the balcony. The wind ripped at his clothes like an angry mob, stripping him of his jacket and sending it tumbling towards Earth like a leaf in the wind. The crowd below scattered, people tripping over each other like fleeing animals. Had John opened his eyes than, he might have seen the sidewalk that was to become his final resting place, but as he reached terminal velocity he held his eyes firmly shut and continued on smiling, remembering all the people who had hurt him, and what they would do now.

Seconds later, his short journey came to an end.



Alright, my proposal for the next person; a taxi driver picks up a suspicious looking man clutching something in his jacket.
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#2
It was a warm night when Omar came to the house of 45 Boeing Street. The moon was gibbonous; the streetlights shone though a slight mist. Omar stubbed out his cigerette and pressed the horn.

Omar turned the radio down, and waited for the passanger to appear in his back seat; James left his home, and climbed into the back of the taxi; Omar noticed that the man seemed to be hiding something under his blazer.

"The Ox Hotel?" Asked Omar.

"Yeah, thanks."

The streetlamps cast an orange light into the car; the lines of the road started and stopped rapidly as James looked down at them through the window; Omar checked on him in the mirror; he couldn't tell if the man was ill or just pale.

Rows of houses pasted them by, disppearing at a bridge when garages and fast food resturants replaced them; the little red counter under the mirror began to climb; 3.10. 3.20.

The London cab turned into a bus lane, stripping past white transit vans dyed orange by cruel lighting; over the second bridge into the centre of town. Omar's attentions slowly rounded themselves on his passanger. He seemed to be getting more exitable, looking 'round in all directions. "So, you're going to the Ox? Isn't the mayor's party there tonight?"

"Yeah, actually."

"So, what are you, a council member?"

"School governer." James lied.

"Ah." he sat in silence; he conceeded defeat as to what was under the governer's blazer as he turned onto the street, the Ox looming up beside them. The mayor was there in red robes, black hat, gold chain adorning his neck, various council members greeting him: it seemed that he'd just arrived.

"Thanks, mate, just here'll do."

"Sure." Omar read the red counter. "That'll be six pounds sixty."

"Here you go. Thanks, mate." James thrust a collection of coins and a fiver into the driver's hand and got out.

Omar counted the change, as it contained an amount of copper, but he found himself watching the man from the corner of his eye.

James took the bomb from under his blazer, and threw it at the MP for Churchlay Green, drenching her. She grinned, and pulled a water pistol from her own blazer pocket.

"I knew you'd do this James! I'll get you!" she laughed as she pursued him down the road, leaving her bemused workmates and the mayor behind her.


My challange is to write about a street proformer who encounters a black suited man.
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