We all know this game, the one where you drunkenly draw a half – alien, half – Hitler face for the depressed drunk to your left. It’s three A.M, and we have nothing better to do….except, maybe…play the game with a fictional story?
This game, adequately named “Beginning, Middle, End” involves me – THE BANKER/CHRIS TARRANT/NOEL EDMONDS – and you, the audience, who get to write the missing parts of my story!
Once a story has been written as a comment – either the B, M or E – then I will UPLOAD THE TWO THIRDS and then wait for the final piece of the jigsaw to emerge.
Come on guys – even if it’s a few paragraphs, I think this game can get our creative juices running.
THE END – TO BE COMPLETED/ ELABORATED ON BY BELOVED FOLLOWER;
Everything is black. I have woken, my feet bare and cold – and the tight sensation of something over my chest and wrists. I wait, listen…try to block out the sound of my breathing, but it’s no use. The only noises I hear are the ones I imagine while in some odd, neck snapping nap. I am a hostage, and I dream about black shoes.
Black shoes that yell down the metal, rusting halls outside.
Black shoes that run through the slime and sweat, to unlock the door on my cell and set me free.
“Miss?” They shout desperately, as they shine a light onto mu bruised face.
“Yes – yes, quick. They’re coming – help me.”
But no one comes.
Just the trickle of some water behind me, and
the dry fibers in my mouth
and the echoes of my useless, quiet moans – they travel around this nowhere like boomerangs.
The worst thing, I learn, is the loneliness.
Signed, The Truth About Journalism…
that was the TAIL, SO PLEASE provide me with the head and body below!