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The Bloody Yarn

I'd like to start here a tale that would be told by everyone. Each in turn should write the following in sequence according to the rules hereafter:


1. Each storyteller has to write a MAXIMUM of 10 lines put in quotation marks.


2. Use only the third person by telling. Never I or You (except for direct quotation).


2. The storyteller must use at least one noun, adjective or verb appearing in the former sequence.


3. A storyteller is not allowed to come back as a writer as long as 10 other tellers have not come on meanwhile.


Go on, it's my turn.
-----------------------------------------------------------
"
Once upon a time an old witch lived in Limerick, a dampered city on the West coast of Ireland. Every afternoon she was sitting at the back of a smoky pub sipping hours long a cup of black coffee. Curls of blue smoke were floating throughout the air. A sour persistent smell was filling up the atmosphere, the Delavigne perfumes were still unknown in that remote city by that time.
From time to time someone entered the pub, came on and sat down at the witch table. It was either a young handsome man, either a scabby old woman, either a teenager, or the housekeeper of the doctor across the street.
"

49 comments

  • I like this idea !


    "
    But whoever entered and sat down at the witch table usually did so for a serious reason, for it was known that the witch was not kind with people with futile problems.


    James O'Connor knew about the witch and had a very serious issue to deal with. He had not been able to find any way to solve his problem for months and since the stakes were so high, he decided to ask the witch for help.


    He entered the pub, as excited as frightened, and sat down at the witch table.
    "
  • He said : "I'm in love with a very pretty girl. She's the most pretty girl I never met. Her hair is so shining red. Her eyes are so sparkling violet. Her skin is so ivory white... She is the most beautiful girl in the world ! When she walks on the moor, she is dancing the most gentle dance." He stopped talking for a while and sighted :'Owww ! Maureen !'"
  • "
    The witch hardly raised her head and said: Five bucks. "
  • "
    O'Connor slipped a 100 EUR banknote down the table. The witch shaked her head saying "I said five bucks." O'Connor took off 5 bills of 1 US$ that he displayed ahead. With his left hand he took back the 100 Euros note and hid it away beneath the table. What happened to the note, nobody knows. One could only see the left hand coming back bare and relieved onto the table and the witch having a stiff smile.
    She said: "Let's cut to the chase. Wow! You are chasing Maureen! Is she posted?
    - Posted? What about?
    - About your O'. Your great-grandfather Sean 0'Connor, the son of Connor, wanted to lose his O'. Therefore he succeeded in failing an O-level in Gaelic. Failing to pass the O-level, he lost his O' and got called Connor. But his son got the O' back because he was the son of a Connor. That shows that, whatever you could do to lose your O', the child that you are to have with Maureen will have to cope with.
    - Oh don't care about my O'. What about Maureen? "
  • "
    O'Connor: "Is she married?"
    The witch: "Don't you think that getting married is a bit out-of-date for an up-to-date girl? No. She not married."
    O'Connor stayed speechless for a while and sighed :'Owww ! Maureen !'"
  • "
    He couldn't help watching in mind Maureen dancing naked on the moor. But he was watching her in the distance even though he would have liked to get her close ho him to clasp her in his arms and kiss her and well more... But Maureen was dancing away from him. She was now far away and her outline was hardly looming in the evening gloom.


    The witch gave three knocks on the table to get him back on earth.


    "She is not married." she said, "but it makes no odds, it's pretty much the same." "
  • Coming back to this story I find it stagnating dusty and faded down the bottom of the GymGlish Users and Visitors Lounge, forsaken by all. Until now it doesn't look like a yarn, and a bloody yarn neither.


    Though it has been granted the pushing forward of Antoine Brenner himself and the call of some five other volonteers. That's why I do like to listen to the emergency call the story is yelling. Being its mother I feel compelled to rescue it: I rashly decide to modify the 4th rule.
    Up until now any writer has not to wait for 10 other co-writers coming in between before telling again, but only for 2.


    SO: as long as 2 tellers came after you, feel free to go on with the story.
    (this is my last desperate rescue action).




    From Amy:
    I'd like to start here a tale that would be told by everyone. Each in turn should write the following in sequence according to the rules hereafter:


    1. Each storyteller has to write a MAXIMUM of 10 lines put in quotation marks.


    2. Use only the third person by telling. Never I or You (except for direct quotation).


    2. The storyteller must use at least one noun, adjective or verb appearing in the former sequence.


    3. A storyteller is not allowed to come back as a writer as long as 10 other tellers have not come on meanwhile.


    Go on, it's my turn.
    -----------------------------------------------------------
    "
    Once upon a time an old witch lived in Limerick, a dampered city on the West coast of Ireland. Every afternoon she was sitting at the back of a smoky pub sipping hours long a cup of black coffee. Curls of blue smoke were floating throughout the air. A sour persistent smell was filling up the atmosphere, the Delavigne perfumes were still unknown in that remote city by that time.
    From time to time someone entered the pub, came on and sat down at the witch table. It was either a young handsome man, either a scabby old woman, either a teenager, or the housekeeper of the doctor across the street.
    "


     
  • "
    O'Connor got bewildered.
    Harold Warbuckle - an acquaintance he was used to going hunting with - had told him: "To boost your start-up, do hire as an accountant an old bachelor, narrow-minded and tight-fisted. But to head your marketing department, appoint a young European career woman, 25 to 28, good-looking and ambitious; you'll catch such a gem easily. There are so many on the prowl for the Mr Right you should play. Three more assets: Irish accent, shining red hair, able to dance with the telly adds."
    But would Maureen dance as well on the telly than on the moor?
    But above all, James O'Connor had now some doubts as to the "singleton on the prowl for Mr Right" Maureen could be! "
  • "
    The witch guessed O'Connor's thoughts.
    - “Giving her the job does not mean she will fall for you. Moreover, mixing business and your personal life is far from being the best thing you can do. This could make your life a misery.”, she said.
    - "What should I do then? I am so hopeless." replied the lovesick man like a lion in pain.
    - "Trust the fate! Just do what your heart tells you!" voiced the witch with a strange smile.
    The lightning suddenly flashed outside, the thunder roared, the wind increased and the rain poured torrentially.
    It was a strange thunder roar, a never heard thunder roar, a thunder roar to chill the blood.
    And then, that cry. A big cry, a desperate cry, a cry for help. But a cry that O'Connors knew too well.
    - "Maureen, it's Maureen!" shouted the man. "She needs me, she must be in danger!"
    - "I know this country like the back of my hand." said the bar-tender. "That cry must come from the moor".
    - "From the moor..." gasped O'Connor and he rushed towards the exit.
    - "Dont' forget, trust..." started the witch. But O'Connor was already out of sight before she could finish. Maureen was certainly in danger and nothing
    in life was as important as saving her. "

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