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Story Weave : Overboard

April 4, 2009

story-weave I love collaborative stories.

It’s so fun to begin a story and then watch another writer take it in a new direction, or introduce a completely new character. I think interactive stories are good for writers: they challenge the imagination and force writers to let go of their preconceived notions and restrictions. Writing in an open-ended venue is not always easy, but nearly always rewarding; it’s sort of like weaving several sentences together into a pretty pattern and then throwing the material into the dryer – the colors bleed into a totally different, and often times better, design.

It’s good to shake up our expectations once in a while.

So, let’s give it a try, shall we? I’ll take the [Fiction] Friday prompt and give it a different whirl – I’ll begin the story and then someone else can continue the story in the comment section. No minimum word count, but let’s try not write a novel, either. And please, leave your ending open-ended to make it easier on the next writer.

It’s time to stop talking and start writing. Let’s see how much fabric we can weave, shall we?


“Honey, I love you, but seriously? You’re driving me crazy.” Laura pressed her body closer to the edge of the counter top to allow her husband room to pass by her in the small cabin.

He purposefully rubbed himself against the length of her before continuing past, a wide smile curving his generous lips.

“Aw, come on, love,” he responded, his Irish accent sounding heavy and lazy that bright, sunny morning, “how many couples can say they get to spend quality time like this?”

“Not many,” Laura responded and wistfully pictured herself curled up in a chair in a light-filled library with a cup of warm tea by her side and a good book resting on her lap, alone. It wasn’t as if she didn’t love her husband, but after being at sea with him for five months, she could honestly say, she was sick of seeing his handsome face.

She flipped the flapjacks with a little more force than was necessary. If she didn’t get away from her husband, and soon, she was going to lose her cool. She couldn’t turn around without him breathing down her neck, or asking her questions, or teasing her, or trying to be part of whatever she was doing.

But that morning, shortly after she had woken up and made her way to the restroom, was really what broke the tentative hold she had on her sanity.

“What the hell are you doing?” she had screamed as her husband had opened the door to their small latrine. She had snatched the towel off the nearby rack and hastily covered herself up.

“I just wanted to say good morning, that’s all,” he had responded, that stupid, silly grin, the grin she had come to loathe over the past several months, plastered on his face.

“Seth, there are certain things that married people don’t share. THIS would be one of them. Now get out of here!” She had reached over and grabbed the bar of soap from the sink and threw it at him.

He had slammed the door before the soap could hit him, his light-hearted chuckles painful to her fragile sanity, like someone had wrapped her body in a strand of barb-wire fencing.

“Are you still sore about the bathroom thing?” he asked, jerking her back to the present, while reaching around to grab three strips of bacon. His arm brushed against her breasts and he gave her a flirtatious wink before settling himself back at the tiny table.

She resisted the urge to throw the spatula at him.

“It’s not like I haven’t seen that,” he said, while waving his fork in the general direction of her hips, “and so much more

She turned to glare at him, his wide smile making her even more angry.

“Just because we’re married doesn’t give you the right to just walk in and watch me use the bathroom. A woman needs her privacy,” she sniffed and finished scooping up the last batch of flapjacks to plop onto a platter in front of him.

“Is it nearly that time of month or something?” he asked while forking four fluffy flapjacks and putting them onto his plate. “I mean, you should be in a good mood, after last night and all …” his voice trailed off and he stuffed a huge bite into his mouth, a drop of syrup glistening on his lower lip.

Laura could feel her temper rising. Why did he always blame his faults on her hormones? It was maddening that he never once said he was sorry for acting like a jerk.

“I need air.”

“Your breakfast will get cold,” he called after her as she began to climb the stairs to the deck.

“I’m not hungry.”

“I sure hope we have some Pamprin left,” she heard him mumble as she opened the door and stepped outside.

The sunlight was a welcome relief to her dark mood.

Five minutes passed and she could feel her temper settle into a low simmer. She would go shopping. She wasn’t a big shopper, but she needed to get away from Seth, if only for a few hours. Being with him every single moment of the day was really starting to make her feel suffocated.

She would leisurely stroll through the marketplace, grab herself a nice, frothy cup of latte, maybe read a book and then she would meet him back at the boat for a relaxing dinner.

Yes, that was just what she needed. She could feel her muscles soften and her chest loosen at the thought of several hours away from her husband.

“So, what do you want to do today?” asked Seth, grabbing her from behind and lifting her up against him. His breath felt like sand paper against the shell of her ear and Laura could feel her control snapping.

She yelped in surprise. “Put me down,” she snarled. She jerked in his arms. “Seth, you need to get a hobby.”

‘You’re my hobby, babe.” His grin faded as he noted her scowl. “Oh, come on,” Seth placated and released her, moving to lean a hip against the short railing around the deck. “Are you going to be this bitchy all day?”

Before she could stop to think about what she was doing, Laura gave him a strong push and watched as Seth fell, head first, into the water.

“Actually, I feel better already,” she said as soon as his head bobbed back to the surface.


Karen likes to pretend that she’s in the same league as the rest of the Write Anything writers, but as you can read, she’s clearly delusional. You can find more of Karen’s fiction at Fiction Fix.

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