Infection Spreads

Here are the rules: So says Splotchy

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.


The bus was more crowded than usual. It was bitterly cold outside, and I hadn't prepared for it. I noticed that a fair number of the riders were dressed curiously. As I glanced around, I stretched my feet and kicked up against a large, heavy cardboard box laying under the seat in front of me. (Splotchy)

I couldn't believe my eyes. Surreptitiously, I tried to establish, without giving it away, if anyone else had seen what I had. For ten years I had been looking for that box. What looked like an ordinary cardboard box to most contained something most precious. Only by the small golden "P" was I able to identify what I was looking at. (Freida Bee)

How the box got here, or how I happened to be on this bus with it now--these questions were immaterial. I just had to get that box. The bus slowed to a stop, so I steadied myself. Just as I was about to make a grab for the box, however, it moved. Someone else was picking it up to take it away! I had to stop her! (Dguzman)
What? This couldn't be happening--to get this close and watch some quick-footed little dwarf just up and snatch it away from me...no! I got up and just as I did the sweaty hillbilly in front of me stood up and stepped into the aisle. Moving like a bad mime imitating a man in a box he extended his arms and stretched, looking up at the ceiling as he did so. The dwarf with the box--I couldn't be sure if it was a man or a woman, but something about her seemed feminine--slipped out the front door and off the bus. I took a deep breath and slumped back down into my seat. (Bubs)

I sized up the chances of getting bodily fluids on me for a few seconds before I decided to risk it. I needed to get that box back.

"Sir, do you think I could get past you?" I ventured, standing stiffly, hoping to move near the front door to catch a quick exit at the next stop.

"Ah's gettin' off a' tha nex' stop," he said as he wiped his brow and placed his hand squarely on my shoulder.

"Well, fuck," I thought, getting more and more irritated each second his residual touch seemed to burn itself permanently into the fabric of my sweater. "I need to ask the bus driver about the next stop, really quickly. Do you mind?"

I could see he was challenged. His size alone made the bus an unfortunate place for him to endure, but I was concerned I would not be able to catch up with the thief who stole my box this time.

"Ah know these parts real good-like an' kin tells you anythin' you wants ta know."

"Sir, I really just need to be ready to step off the bus as soon as it stops," I said irritatedly now, as the bus jerked to a stop in its typically abrupt manner. I fell forward smack dab into his chest, catching a whiff of a strange smell that simultaneously made me gag and feel groggy only moments before I felt my head spinning as he caught my fall, grinning knowingly. (Freida)


When I come to, I can still smell the stench of the huge man, but find myself alone in a what appears to be, in the gloom of a lurid sunset, a shack on the edge of a swamp. I try to get up to open the fragile looking door, but my knees buckle and won't hold my weight. I sink back on a rough shelf and notice that the smell is stronger here. It is a mixture of sweat and something chemical, like maybe ether or chloroform. I use my arms to pull me away from the smell, and end up leaning against the wall with the door, but the latch is too high for me to reach it without the use of my legs and I am sweating and shaking.

I hear a rustling sound and I am afraid it is rats. The hair on my arms and the back of my neck waves like sea grass in a gentle breeze. The feeling is like a gentle touch, not bad at all. In fact I feel my sex organ stir and swell and moisture springs from my skin like dew. My nipples stand at attention and it isn't cold. This is not the sweat of fear, this is arousal. What is happening to me? (the savage one)

I tag:
Linda Sama
Dusty
Simstone
Anita
MrMacrum

AIG gives "Retention Payments" to Top Executives

We bought AIG to save the insurance giant from insolvency. One of the conditions on our several hundred billion dollar bailout was that the top executives forgo bonuses. That sounds pretty clear and reasonable. They had been taking an economic nose dive while continuing to give millions in bonuses and golden parachutes to executives responsible for making decisions that drove the Insurance giant into the ground. So, now that we own 80% of the company, they are giving "retention payments" to executives. So a bonus for failure is now a "retention payment". Sounds like we are getting fucked again. Since we are the majority stockholder of AIG, I say we fire their asses.

Process

In response to a question about creativity


When I read, all I do is read, as if it were a full time job. When I painted all I did was paint. It's the same with writing. I am not able to combine obsessions. Creativity takes me like a possession. It seems effortless at its best. Only the editing is work.

When I painted it took a lot of time to learn when to stop. I had to back off to mere suggestion of line. I deconstructed my painting to pen and ink and very few lines. I did my best portraits during this period. One was of my third husband and he looked like James Joyce. I captured him in maybe five or six lines. The suggestion of the man.

I've done many self portraits. Unable to afford models I painted what I saw. I did still life, interiors, architecture, but portraiture was my favorite. My best were sold. One was a gift to the third husband who burned the house down after I left him. And with the house, went those two portraits.

My Foolish Heart, Bill Evans Trio