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Old 08-24-2008, 02:02 AM   #121
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Ahhh. I was just kidding. Here are some words that we can all use.

Kool-Aid
Watermelon
Squirt Gun
Lake
Picknick

Seeeeeya; Goodweed of the North
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Old 08-24-2008, 02:13 AM   #122
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Thanks for being a good sport! I will probably work on my story while we are on the road tomorrow and post it as soon as I can get back online.

Barbara
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Old 08-24-2008, 09:03 AM   #123
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Actually I was kind of hoping, when I started this thread, that we could use just simple ordinary everyday words. Each person can then write as simple or complex a story as he or she wants to write. I had hoped that this would make everyone feel comfortable, as not all of us are professional writers.

For instance, if the words are things like "somnambulism" and "copious," that could be somewhat limiting. However, if the words are things like "notepad" and "keychain," one person could write, "She quickly tossed the notepad and keychain into her already overflowing purse," and someone else could write, "He had filled his notepad with copious notes at the somnambulism seminar. He grabbed his keychain and headed for the door." Simple words taken in two completely different directions.

Barbara
um, ok, but don't know why you'd quote me on this Barbara, all I was doing was teasing Expat and GWOTN {???}
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Old 08-24-2008, 11:22 AM   #124
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I quoted your post because I liked what you said. I wasn't really responding to you, just agreeing with you.

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Old 08-24-2008, 11:26 AM   #125
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Hero
sublime
indicative
extrapolate
snail

Our hero, the ever-popular Sally Drake, who usually sold seashells on the seashore, climbed into her snail-driven chariot and rushed to the next destination shown on the map. The wind blowing her hair forward was indicative of the chariot's speed, or lack thereof. But nevertheless, she led the search for the elusive treasure.

"C'mon Fred!" she cried. For in the distance behind her, she saw the cloud of dust kicked up by her arch-rival, William Von-Porcupine. Von-Porcupine, like herself, sought the sublime treasure that awaited the quest winner; and his squirrel driven wagon was so much faster than her chariot.

"Fred, let's extrapolate a little. Now old porky up there can maintain his top speed of 150 feet per minute for about three minutes before his squirrel starts huffing and puffing. He's about a hundred feet ahead of us and we're on the last leg of the quest. But we've three miles to go. Hmmm, If I figure right, that's a little over 15000 feet. His squirrel needs to rest every three minutes, for about two minutes. So he's in fact, traveling at about 450 feet for every five minutes.

You cover the ground at three feet per minute, but never tire. At your rate of speed, in that same five minutes, we travel fifteen feet. So, we need a thousand minutes to complete the journey. He needs, let me figure this out, thirty-three minutes to cover the same distance. I think we're going to have to break out the secret weapon...

Sally pulled the reins, stopping her steady steed, and dismounted the chariot. Walking to one side, she removed a skateboard that had been attached for just such a purpose. She had known that the last leg of the journey would be run across a plateau of granite, which would allow the wheeled board to be of use. With skateboard in hand, she briskly walked to the other side and opened a compartment that folded away from the chariot side, and removed a collapsible kite, along with a long cord.

"Fred, Let's give you a rest, and get some speed up. I think we have enough wind to make this work."

Sally placed the skateboard on the ground, parallel and beside the snail. She then toppled Fred to his side, no easy task considering that his shell weighed nearly two-hundred pounds. Then she kicked the board sideways, and with a gargantuan effort, managed to right the snail onto the board. She then attached one end of the sturdy cord to his yoke, and the other to the kite. The wind quickly lifted the silken kite into the air, tugging fiercely on snail's yolk as the impromptu sail flew before the it. Sally had barely enough time to close the compartment and climb once again into the chariot. But with a quick burst of speed, she managed.

"Now we're moving, Fred." she cried.

In a matter of moments, she percieved the distance between her and her adversary lengthen dramatically. Fred, he just enjoyed the ride.

The thousand minutes was shortened to 1 hour, with the aid of the wind-driven kite. Before the day was out, she had completed her journey. Sally pulled the kite from the sky and stored it in its compartment. She removed the skateboard from beneath Fred, and tied him to a nearby tree. For before her lay the treasure, a year's supply of Fine chocolate conffections from and estraordinary New York chocolatier.

Another hour saw her arch rival, the insidious William Von-Porcupine arrive at the treasure.

"Vell frauline,..." he said. "It seems you beat me to the treasure."

"That's right porky." she said as she popped a lucious blueberry-filled truffle into her mouth.

"But how did you get here so fast, and with just that snail?"

"Ah, you old scoundroll, that's my secret now, isn't it."

"Next time, frauline, next time..."

And with a shake of his fist, William Von-Pocupine auspiciously fled the scene, heading back the way he'd come, with a cloud of dust making the only testimony of his presence.

"Fred,..." inquired our hero, "...how are we gonna get all of this chocolate home?"

Before Sally could ponder the question for very long, a man dressed in a crimson tuxedo appeared, seemingly from nowhere and addressed her.

"Miss Sally Drake, you are the winner of fine chocolates from the owner and chocolatier of our fine company, and she has an offer for you. If you will agree to her terms, you will not only receive the fine chocolate that is already yours, but you will become the next owner and chocolatier of our company."

"But I don't know anything about making chocolates." answered Sally.

"Ah, but in successfuly completing this quest, you have shown great fortitude, and an uncanny ability to overcome many great challenges, using wit and wisdom. You have proven yourself worthy."

Sally thought for a moment, then inquired, "Can I bring Fred?"

"Yes child, you can bring Fred, and your imediate family, all to live in the cloud mansion, in the hidden mountain."

Sally could hardly contain her composure as she gleefully answered, "Then I accept the offer. I accept, I accept, I accept!"


"Sally." came her mother's voice from the bedroom doorway.

Sally awoke from a most wondrous dream. She stretched breifly and answered; "Mom, I had the most wonderful dream..." and she began to repeat the dream for her mother.

"Sally..." her mother interupted. "There is someone at the door to see you. He's dressed in a crimson tuxedo and says he has a business offer for you."

Sally's eys grew wide as she leaped out of her bed. She hurriedly threw on her robe and ran to the door. Before her stood the man from her dream; and he held before him a a box of chocolates...

The end.

Seeeeeeya; Goodweed of the North

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Old 08-24-2008, 11:42 AM   #126
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Goofy
weasel
Race
Utopia
bouillabaisse


"This is just nuts!"
Bilben, an accomplished chef, was frustrated by the contest rules. He continued complaining to his wife, a very lovely weasel named Irma; "Look at this. First I have to make a bouillabaisse, and then hall it all the way to Utopia, and it has to be hot when it gets there!"

"Oh Bilben..." she replied. "...Why do you enter these goofy races? They always get you so upset."

"I race because I'm the best. Can't you see that woman? I have a reputation to uphold."

"Well I think you're as goofy as this race."

Bilben ignored his wife and began planning his strategy. The first thing he had to do was contact his partner, Harry, the blue-tick hound. Harry could sniff out any ingredients that would be needed, and was a powerful ally in a scrap as well. And Bilben, as his weasle nature would suggest, was good at getting into scraps...

To be ocntinued. I need some breakfast.

Seeeeeeya; Goodweed of the North
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Old 08-24-2008, 12:05 PM   #127
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I was wondering if unkempt bikers could play.

Kool-Aid
Watermelon
Squirt Gun
Lake
Picknick

It was a dark and stormy creme brulee. ‘Burnt cream’ by my sweaty riding saddle! This sludge looked like a Guernsey cow had trod boldly into a flame thrower. Smirking from across the sideboard was my witty brother-in-law, the nouveau riche Nicholas AusVenner, heir to the Doucheman rose hips fortune and my best friend.

"Perhaps if you poured whiskey and Kool-Aid into that mess no one would notice," the urbane bon vivant chortled, "it wouldn’t make this weekend anymore frightful."

"Considering that this fortnight has delivered to a us a grizzly murder I could probably entertain the family with poached marsupial and no one would notice..."

There, I had said it openly. The murder. A scant two syllables that hung crepe upon the regatta, its opening spring festivities and the unspoken realignment of status for a few nondescript local virgins. And just as the breathless remains of our beloved Tyrone Vizniak (head split like a summer watermelon) reclined in the dank stable abutment awaiting Constable Brunhill’s entrance, also lifeless was this murky pot before me.

"I fear that if this potters’ porridge stiffens further you won’t be able to cut it with a Pick, Nick," I lamented.

"Quite ghastly that Sir Fredrich Smerdley was taken ill," the young Nicholas gesticulated, "Tragic to imagine both upstairs servants dying in the collapse of that drafty old manse he puchased from Veronica Lake’s estate after she died in The South of France in 1974."

Without warning the missing clue shot through me like a simmering saute of lard from a child’s squirt gun.

"Nicholas, you old highwayman, you’ve solved the ruse!" I intoned. "Any movie fanatic of Ms. Lake knows that she expired in Burlington, Vermont in 1973!"

Instantly, the brulee started to clear...
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Old 08-24-2008, 12:14 PM   #128
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Originally Posted by Chico Buller View Post
I was wondering if unkempt bikers could play.

Kool-Aid
Watermelon
Squirt Gun
Lake
Picknick

It was a dark and stormy creme brulee. ‘Burnt cream’ by my sweaty riding saddle! This sludge looked like a Guernsey cow had trod boldly into a flame thrower. Smirking from across the sideboard was my witty brother-in-law, the nouveau riche Nicholas AusVenner, heir to the Doucheman rose hips fortune and my best friend.

"Perhaps if you poured whiskey and Kool-Aid into that mess no one would notice," the urbane bon vivant chortled, "it wouldn’t make this weekend anymore frightful."

"Considering that this fortnight has delivered to a us a grizzly murder I could probably entertain the family with poached marsupial and no one would notice..."

There, I had said it openly. The murder. A scant two syllables that hung crepe upon the regatta, its opening spring festivities and the unspoken realignment of status for a few nondescript local virgins. And just as the breathless remains of our beloved Tyrone Vizniak (head split like a summer watermelon) reclined in the dank stable abutment awaiting Constable Brunhill’s entrance, also lifeless was this murky pot before me.

"I fear that if this potters’ porridge stiffens further you won’t be able to cut it with a Pick, Nick," I lamented.

"Quite ghastly that Sir Fredrich Smerdley was taken ill," the young Nicholas gesticulated, "Tragic to imagine both upstairs servants dying in the collapse of that drafty old manse he puchased from Veronica Lake’s estate after she died in The South of France in 1974."

Without warning the missing clue shot through me like a simmering saute of lard from a child’s squirt gun.

"Nicholas, you old highwayman, you’ve solved the ruse!" I intoned. "Any movie fanatic of Ms. Lake knows that she expired in Burlington, Vermont in 1973!"

Instantly, the brulee started to clear...
Think you should rename yourself - Biker Shakespear.

Seeeeeeya; Goodweed of the North
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Old 08-24-2008, 12:22 PM   #129
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Quote:
Originally Posted by Chico Buller View Post
It was a dark and stormy creme brulee.
You've made very many funny lines.
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Old 08-24-2008, 01:27 PM   #130
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Well, I don't know about you, but I'm having fun.

Hero
sublime
indicative
extrapolate
snail

"A Stormy Brulee" Chapter Two.

...and as my tawdry concoction thinned, it became clear to the twain of us that this most foul deed was crafted as artfully as is indicative of a hand lacquered Chinese Puzzle Box.

I spun sharply on my Bruno Magli kid glove Nemans and confronted Nicholas in this sublime euphoria of acuity. "My brother, did Sir Vizniak keep his steamship agency travel license updated?"

"Of course, fine waste of money to traverse the globe at the pace of a snail, if you ask me, what," the AusVenner sniped, "Just Thursday I saw his girl Friday place the renewal document on his bureau, poor Wednesday’s child..."

"Bod Hopkins, you are correct, Nicholas," I bleated, "she was stricken at quite the speed of that wallpaper blight. I fear more is to come!"

"Tell me, ol’ dodger," Nicholas mused, "At just exactly what school did you matriculate on this abiding art of deduction you extrapolate?"

"Elementary, my dear Nicholas, elementary," I responded, "But we haven’t the luxury to compare old school ties at this juncture. Tell me, do you still keep a revolver?"

"Dear, me, of course," tossed AusVenner, "as is my practice I am always with my Webley-Vickers .38 Cartridge of Smith & Wesson, secreted in my rumba truss."

"Then let’s be off in your Duesenberg sedan, post haste," I commanded, "If correct, it means that the very life of girl-Friday Philopia Gorgonzmeier is at risk!"

"Izod," gasped Nicholas, "you may be the hero yet...!"
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