Arrgghh! I've Been Re-Infected!

Well, I can't say I didn't deserve it, nor can I say I mind being re-infected with this particularly juicy strain of the Splotchy Story Virus. Some of you may recall when this was going around last year. Some may not.

Here's the deal:
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. -Splotchy

I had been shuffling around the house for a few hours and already felt tired. The doorbell rang. I opened the front door and saw a figure striding away from the house, quickly and purposefully. I looked down and saw a bulky envelope. I picked it up. The handwriting was smudged and cramped, and I could only make out a few words. (Splotchy)

Despite the throbbing pain in my knees and the dull ache in my lower back, I bent down slowly and picked up the envelope...

Oh no. It did not say this, did it?

Oh yes, it did. It did.

The handwriting was familiar in a way that inspired a cold sweat and a bout of nausea. It was the penmanship of my former husband. You know - the one that was presumed dead.

He disappeared in a suspicious blogging related accident a number of years ago and was never heard from again. I was devastated. I had hated the blog, loathed the thing. What began as a hobby that took but a few minutes a day had morphed into an addiction, the proportions of which could not be measured. It was pure evil.

The blog turned into a cruel and demanding mistress and her siren song was more than I could compete with. One day he left for an evening event, never to return again.

All fingers pointed to one blogger, but I could never get the charges to stick. That one is slick- slick, slick, slick. He can talk a good game and write like nobody's business. But there is something about him, it just is not right.

So my husband was gone, that other one kept blogging and I had to rebuild my life, which I did.

So I finally had the bastard declared dead. And now this. (FranIam)

I took the envelope inside and got out a magnifying glass. I studied the scribblings on the front and made out the words “This is for you. You KNOW why” just above the undead bastard’s name. What the hell?

What could it be? What did he mean, I “KNOW” why? What did I do? I had never been anything but faithful to him and his "interests." I followed his stupid blog as it meandered through the vapid expanses of his small mind, trying my best to be polite when he talked about some comment he’d gotten on a particular post, or a funny link he’d dropped into a post.

Just thinking about it made my stomach hurt.

Despite a fleeting fear that there might be anthrax powder in the envelope, I opened it and pulled out the contents. (dguzman)

A noodle, a meatball and one of the six legs of a squid? (Squid have six legs, not eight, right? Unsure I rushed to my computer to ask The Lord Google. OMG, I was wrong! Squid do have eight legs. And two tentacles. Like cuttlefish. I digress. Damn you Google!)

What was he working on when he had that blogging accident? I thought back to the nights of feverish typing. The nights the keyboard fairly reeked of despair, flopsweat and ricola. He would babble "vision quest" "noodly appendage" "the alpha and the semolina" "green sticky spawn of the stars". This last I just attributed to far too much interest in the pussy photos of Britney Spears.

In shaky handwriting was the couplet:

That is not dead which can eternal lie.
And with strange æons even death may die

I felt that I was beginning to understand. He had been killed in an epic battle of Good versus Not-So-Good or even "meh!" (Jess Wundrun)

Feeling the need for sleep, I turned off the computer, flicked the lightswitch and headed up through the pitch to bed, where, within minutes, I was floating in the blissful land of Nod.

Rudely interrupted by the nocturne call of nature -- you know, a can of Schlitz in the fridge -- I stumbled down the stairs, not into the ground floor of our house, but into a heretofore unknown level of hell.

My Flying Spaghetti Monster, the stench!

I had forgotten to dispose of the noodle, meatball and squid leg. Yes, that had to be the reason for such a nauseating, putrescent odor. Holding my nose, I turned the corner into the den. The computer desk was empty, save for a translucent, vaguely green goo that had slid onto the floor, inexplicably forming what seemed to be the tracks of an inhuman, shambling beast.

My eyes followed their path. It led into the kitchen. (Randal Graves)

With great trepidation, I grabbed an umbrella (for protection?) and followed the glowing foot prints through the kitchen to find the back door ajar. I looked outside and flinched when I saw the hideous form that was my husband, but not my husband, oozing and glowing as he swung on our children's swing set.

It was a good thing I had an umbrella in hand, because, as I neared him, he stopped swinging and sprayed as he spoke. "Honey, I just had to come see you and the kids before it was too late. This is what blogging did to me. I know I am hideous, but I just had to..." the rest he gurgled, but I could not understand him.

That's when I saw that he'd somehow consumed the computer and continued speaking to me by way of words on a computer screen in the place where his comforting chest used to be. The words said, "I am quickly losing my ability to speak, and can now only blog what I want to say, but I just had to come and warn you that you and the kids are in danger." (Freida Bee)

I hereby give more big, infectious kisses to:

Function of Time (or f(time) as I'd like to call her)
Romius T.
Cowboy the Cat
Whiskeymarie (Just (continue to) ignore the meme I sent your way the other day if you'd rather not do two.)

to carry on the Splotchy Story Virus name. Go do me proud.


Utah Savage said...

Where did this evil tradition begin? It scares me shitless. Sorry I have to blame my shitlessness on something--might be linked to my not clotless enough status. More blood thinners, thinning my ability to concentrate. But nothing keeps me from reading you. I have become a voyeur, thanks to you and your viruses.

Randal Graves said...

Where is Jeff Goldblum? This is some strange, neo-Fly deal, minus the acidic vomit. And the transporter thingamajig. Très excellent !

Comrade Kevin said...

"Useless, useless," he said, as he talked to no one in particular.

Living is easy with eyes closed
misunderstanding all you see

This had been his leitmotif. He had ghosts to exercise the only way he knew how, bluntly, directly. And even then it wasn't enough. Never enough.

Comrade Kevin said...

'I just thought it was better to be Pete Best than Linda McCartney,' she explained with the hint of a grin, as she raised a cup of tea to her lips in a Camden caff. 'Apart from anything, I couldn't deal with being the second guitarist and having this strange, Lady Macbeth role in it, along with being general mother to four blokes.'

She'd been studying music and writing songs since she was 11 and went on to lament the fact that 'as soon as a bloke gets a guitar in his hands, he's unbearable,' which is something that even most men will struggle to argue with.


Utah Savage said...

Wow Comrade Kevin, you are one gorgeous dude and you can write. Do we all have unfinished novels on our hard drives waiting to be dusted off?

I just came over to thank you again for the linky thingy in my email. But I read Scarlet's piece and got hungry so I had to go grocery shopping. Now I'm filled with the need to write again, so I'm back in the blogging business, but don't meme me if it requires linking--it will take me weeks to get it. I can hear you thinking, "she whispers under her breath, 'excuses, excuses...'"

Steve said...

re-infected lol

Cavalor Epthith said...

The gift that keeps on giving.

Anonymous said...

Loverly! I'll get on this.