Is there a story dump here? Where you can throw old story ideas or outlines, in the hope that someone else with more imagination can resuscitate them into something, oh, I dunno, better?
Asking for a friend.
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But *cough* seeing that this topic is here, here's a first paragraph and some notes of a story I can't remember writing. It doesn't sound like me. Maybe I stole it. It's called Lola. I know it doesn't make sense. It's just a start. But anyway. Someone take it.
Lola was cuckoo, the man in the stetson told Neil.
The man took his cigar from his mouth, studied its damp end and popped it back. ‘More cuckoo than a nest of Swiss clocks.’
This man would be Lenny, Lola’s agent. She’d told Neil he’d be here.
Lenny and Neil stood behind a gaggle of half-a-dozen men. Most in t-shirts and shorts, in low conversations, punctured by the odd shout. (‘Where’s the goddam sound?’ a bearded man to the left wanted to know.)
‘Course that’s what everyone loves about Lola. Her story. It’s fuckin nuts. Shot by her own pa. Bullet misses her spine by an inch. Nearly takes out her throat. Can you imagine? No throat?’
Lenny let out a giggle which turned into a cough.‘Escapes over here. Everyone fuckin falls in love. Now look at her. I mean look.’
A few yards away, under bright lights, Lola had disrobed. She was naked on all fours on a bed. A technician was taking a reading. Lola’s mouth had already formed into an almost perfect O.
‘No fuckin throat,’ said Lenny. ‘Jesus.’
A funny thought came to Neil, then. In all their weeks together, Lola had never mentioned a bullet.
Lola had one of those smiles that made him assume her lips had been worked on. Later he learned this wasn’t the case. It had seemed everyone else he’d met so far in Malibu had undergone reconstructive surgery.
He’d watched her for a minute or so at the party. He’d come alone - he knew no-one here yet - dark hair tumbled in loose curls. She had a round, active face. She smiled at him in a curious fashion.
‘Do I know you?’ he said.
Her head tilted. ‘Depends how long you've spent jerking off in front of a computer.'
Her skin was pale and without a blemish, almost. There was a round mark to the side of her throat, shallow as a vaccination scar.
In bed one night - this was later - his fingertips found what turned out to be the matching entry wound between her shoulder blades. As he fingered it she gently pulled his hand away.
How unabashed she is, how much she has absorbed.
Seems too clever
Money shot
Strange surprise of her wrapping
autodidact
Gonzo is no story, and no tits. ‘Some of them,’ her voice rose in almost childish wonder, ‘get their tits inflated. Two-fifty, five-hundred. Seven-hundred.'
'That sounds pretty cheap.'
Lola rolled her eyes. 'It's their cubic capacity.'
She’d been doing it for a year.
‘Do you like it?’
She measured this question carefully, as if it was the first time she’d been asked it.
'You'll see Lenny. He likes to think he’s Texan,’ she said. ‘But he’s from Arkansas.’
Lola was cuckoo, the man in the stetson told Neil.
The man took his cigar from his mouth, studied its damp end and popped it back. ‘More cuckoo than a nest of Swiss clocks.’
This man would be Lenny, Lola’s agent. She’d told Neil he’d be here.
Lenny and Neil stood behind a gaggle of half-a-dozen men. Most in t-shirts and shorts, in low conversations, punctured by the odd shout. (‘Where’s the goddam sound?’ a bearded man to the left wanted to know.)
‘Course that’s what everyone loves about Lola. Her story. It’s fuckin nuts. Shot by her own pa. Bullet misses her spine by an inch. Nearly takes out her throat. Can you imagine? No throat?’
Lenny let out a giggle which turned into a cough.‘Escapes over here. Everyone fuckin falls in love. Now look at her. I mean look.’
A few yards away, under bright lights, Lola had disrobed. She was naked on all fours on a bed. A technician was taking a reading. Lola’s mouth had already formed into an almost perfect O.
‘No fuckin throat,’ said Lenny. ‘Jesus.’
A funny thought came to Neil, then. In all their weeks together, Lola had never mentioned a bullet.
Lola had one of those smiles that made him assume her lips had been worked on. Later he learned this wasn’t the case. It had seemed everyone else he’d met so far in Malibu had undergone reconstructive surgery.
He’d watched her for a minute or so at the party. He’d come alone - he knew no-one here yet - dark hair tumbled in loose curls. She had a round, active face. She smiled at him in a curious fashion.
‘Do I know you?’ he said.
Her head tilted. ‘Depends how long you've spent jerking off in front of a computer.'
Her skin was pale and without a blemish, almost. There was a round mark to the side of her throat, shallow as a vaccination scar.
In bed one night - this was later - his fingertips found what turned out to be the matching entry wound between her shoulder blades. As he fingered it she gently pulled his hand away.
How unabashed she is, how much she has absorbed.
Seems too clever
Money shot
Strange surprise of her wrapping
autodidact
Gonzo is no story, and no tits. ‘Some of them,’ her voice rose in almost childish wonder, ‘get their tits inflated. Two-fifty, five-hundred. Seven-hundred.'
'That sounds pretty cheap.'
Lola rolled her eyes. 'It's their cubic capacity.'
She’d been doing it for a year.
‘Do you like it?’
She measured this question carefully, as if it was the first time she’d been asked it.
'You'll see Lenny. He likes to think he’s Texan,’ she said. ‘But he’s from Arkansas.’
❤️️🌹Elusive Enigma 🌹❤️️
I've looked for something like this. A place where people can donate story ideas for others to improve upon or co-write.
The paragraph and notes for Lola remind me of your writing. Perhaps you wrote this while working on something else and it just didn't make that big of an impression on you at the moment.
I have loads and I mean *cough* hundreds of story outlines and starts in various files spread over a desktop and three laptops. Occasionally, I'll go through them all and read things that I can't remember writing. If inspiration hits, I'll add paragraphs or extra notes, even blocks of dialogue to specific story files.
I seem to write my best stuff when I'm tired as fuck and my mind is freed from any expectations of perfection.
Lola reminds me of something similar I wrote I'll have to find. This is what I remember right now.
*backstory* A woman was raised in a circus and accidentally shot by her ringmaster pa the Friday night she filled in as the lion-tamer's assistant. A few years later she leaves and ends up in the porn business.*
A guy (he narrates the story) works for a summer making pornos for a two-bit loan shark named Stan.
Now Stan liked things big. Cigars, steaks, tits, and ass. He liked to say it was cuz he was Texan. "Everything's bigger in Texas. Just how I like it."
I'll see how well your Lola meshes with my stuff. If anything, it's inspired me to pull my story out and work on it. So, thanks for this thread.
The paragraph and notes for Lola remind me of your writing. Perhaps you wrote this while working on something else and it just didn't make that big of an impression on you at the moment.
I have loads and I mean *cough* hundreds of story outlines and starts in various files spread over a desktop and three laptops. Occasionally, I'll go through them all and read things that I can't remember writing. If inspiration hits, I'll add paragraphs or extra notes, even blocks of dialogue to specific story files.
I seem to write my best stuff when I'm tired as fuck and my mind is freed from any expectations of perfection.
Lola reminds me of something similar I wrote I'll have to find. This is what I remember right now.
*backstory* A woman was raised in a circus and accidentally shot by her ringmaster pa the Friday night she filled in as the lion-tamer's assistant. A few years later she leaves and ends up in the porn business.*
A guy (he narrates the story) works for a summer making pornos for a two-bit loan shark named Stan.
Now Stan liked things big. Cigars, steaks, tits, and ass. He liked to say it was cuz he was Texan. "Everything's bigger in Texas. Just how I like it."
I'll see how well your Lola meshes with my stuff. If anything, it's inspired me to pull my story out and work on it. So, thanks for this thread.
Kissing your lips while straddling your lap.
I'm so glad - actually make that delighted - that my little abandoned puppy might find a new home! I liked Lola: she was intelligent. She had odd hobbies, like playing Cribbage. But I've no idea why her dad shot her.
When I say I can't remember it, I had to look up what gonzo porn was. I'd forgotten what it was. I think that was what she was reduced to, because she wouldn't have surgery.
I have lots of things written too, and sometimes you can go back to them and build on it, or add it to another story. But other times, they're beyond me. I have a some like this, maybe just a couple of lines of notes, but in one or two cases thousands of words. I'll post more here and it would be great if others could do the same.
When I say I can't remember it, I had to look up what gonzo porn was. I'd forgotten what it was. I think that was what she was reduced to, because she wouldn't have surgery.
I have lots of things written too, and sometimes you can go back to them and build on it, or add it to another story. But other times, they're beyond me. I have a some like this, maybe just a couple of lines of notes, but in one or two cases thousands of words. I'll post more here and it would be great if others could do the same.
Here's another.
I wrote about 2,000 words of a story called Take the Gloves Off, Then, about a soldier called Frank who is seriously injured during a war:
At first, one girlfriend had sat by his bed and cried for a day or so. But her visits had tailed off. He knew why. There had been no mirrors in the ward, but the expression on the faces of the student nurses when they first changed his dressings had reflected his condition bluntly enough.
His response was to eat less each day until there was nothing less to eat. This was no conscious act of rebellion or resignation. Not eating did not trouble him. Every day he’d slept a little longer and today – sooner than expected – he’d opened his eyes and he was dead.
Except he isn’t dead. He only thinks he is because he’s been moved to a special ward, where nurses wear badges that say ‘ANGEL’ on them. He is allocated an angel, called Katie, who is inexperienced and too talkative.
‘But you’re an angel.’
‘Not officially. I haven’t finished training yet. You’re my first Category One.’
Later she tries to explain Category Ones:
‘The bravest soldiers whose a sacrifice in conflict is to be recognised in the most humane and intimate treatment and whose legacy must be preserved for future generations.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I’m not sure. I missed that bit of training.’
At first Katie is proud of the treatment the soldiers are getting:
‘It’s the worst to die alone, don’t you think? So they asked for volunteers to sit and talk to them as if they were a loved one.’ Katie spooned yogurt into Frank’s mouth. ‘Isn’t that honourable?’
‘So I’m going to die?’
‘Well that’s up to you, I think. Not everyone dies.’
Without knowing it she reveals a cynical plan: the government is embarrassed by the death rate for soldiers and wants to keep them alive. And the scientists want to ensure that heroes' genes are preserved to spawn future heroes.
Angels aren’t trained nurses. But they were similar clothes, which causes resentment. And there are certain intimate things that Angels are meant to do. Sometimes Katie doesn’t do them because she’s absent-minded:
‘Shit,’ she said. ‘I forgot.’
‘What?’
‘I’m meant to say how handsome you are.’
But Angels are also encouraged to be intimate with the soldiers, to build a relationship with them so they want to live. To make them fall in love. But these relationships are make believe: as soon as the soldiers have enough spirit to live, they’re discharged. Angels are asked to perform intimate tasks (‘hand-relief’ is on the list because their sperm is collected), but Katie is reluctant because thinks those are the acts of a loving relationship. She has a boyfriend of her own and Frank gives her advice. They become attached to each other.
When Katie goes on leave, her place is taken by Grace, a more experienced and enthusiastic Angel (“she snapped on her gloves with the vigour of a hockey captain readying herself for a match”) and Grace disapproves of Katie. Grace gives Frank a daily, emotionless hand-job.
‘We don’t want people to get too attached,’ Grace said.
‘I’m not,’ said Frank.
‘I wasn’t talking about you.’
When Katie returns from holiday, she is giving him his bed bath and checks his notes and sees that he was getting intimate treatment while she was away.
When she folded down the bed and pulled at his pyjamas he had an erection.
Katie stared at it.
‘Well you’re certainly not at death’s door any more.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘It’s ok.’
She lifted it between forefinger and thumb and, as she had done every time before, she rubbed the washcloth gently down it. It twitched. She carefully pulled his foreskin down. It was like pulling on a jumper that was too small.
Katie stopped, and sighed. Still holding his penis.
‘Would you like me to?’
‘No.’
‘It’s ok. It’s my job.’
‘I’d rather it wasn’t a job.’
So there’s a stand off between them. She begins to give him hand jobs, but Frank doesn’t like the fact that Angels use gloves. They both know it’s artificial. He wants her to take her gloves off (hence the title).
And so on and so on. I didn’t finish this story because it was complicated, not just in the world I was creating, but also because I thought I needed to explain more the difference between Angels and ordinary nurses. Angels had to have some special reason for volunteering. Nurses would despise them. It was getting way too long and spiralling out of control.
But maybe someone can sort this out. If anyone wants me to send them the whole thing, let me know!
I wrote about 2,000 words of a story called Take the Gloves Off, Then, about a soldier called Frank who is seriously injured during a war:
At first, one girlfriend had sat by his bed and cried for a day or so. But her visits had tailed off. He knew why. There had been no mirrors in the ward, but the expression on the faces of the student nurses when they first changed his dressings had reflected his condition bluntly enough.
His response was to eat less each day until there was nothing less to eat. This was no conscious act of rebellion or resignation. Not eating did not trouble him. Every day he’d slept a little longer and today – sooner than expected – he’d opened his eyes and he was dead.
Except he isn’t dead. He only thinks he is because he’s been moved to a special ward, where nurses wear badges that say ‘ANGEL’ on them. He is allocated an angel, called Katie, who is inexperienced and too talkative.
‘But you’re an angel.’
‘Not officially. I haven’t finished training yet. You’re my first Category One.’
Later she tries to explain Category Ones:
‘The bravest soldiers whose a sacrifice in conflict is to be recognised in the most humane and intimate treatment and whose legacy must be preserved for future generations.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I’m not sure. I missed that bit of training.’
At first Katie is proud of the treatment the soldiers are getting:
‘It’s the worst to die alone, don’t you think? So they asked for volunteers to sit and talk to them as if they were a loved one.’ Katie spooned yogurt into Frank’s mouth. ‘Isn’t that honourable?’
‘So I’m going to die?’
‘Well that’s up to you, I think. Not everyone dies.’
Without knowing it she reveals a cynical plan: the government is embarrassed by the death rate for soldiers and wants to keep them alive. And the scientists want to ensure that heroes' genes are preserved to spawn future heroes.
Angels aren’t trained nurses. But they were similar clothes, which causes resentment. And there are certain intimate things that Angels are meant to do. Sometimes Katie doesn’t do them because she’s absent-minded:
‘Shit,’ she said. ‘I forgot.’
‘What?’
‘I’m meant to say how handsome you are.’
But Angels are also encouraged to be intimate with the soldiers, to build a relationship with them so they want to live. To make them fall in love. But these relationships are make believe: as soon as the soldiers have enough spirit to live, they’re discharged. Angels are asked to perform intimate tasks (‘hand-relief’ is on the list because their sperm is collected), but Katie is reluctant because thinks those are the acts of a loving relationship. She has a boyfriend of her own and Frank gives her advice. They become attached to each other.
When Katie goes on leave, her place is taken by Grace, a more experienced and enthusiastic Angel (“she snapped on her gloves with the vigour of a hockey captain readying herself for a match”) and Grace disapproves of Katie. Grace gives Frank a daily, emotionless hand-job.
‘We don’t want people to get too attached,’ Grace said.
‘I’m not,’ said Frank.
‘I wasn’t talking about you.’
When Katie returns from holiday, she is giving him his bed bath and checks his notes and sees that he was getting intimate treatment while she was away.
When she folded down the bed and pulled at his pyjamas he had an erection.
Katie stared at it.
‘Well you’re certainly not at death’s door any more.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘It’s ok.’
She lifted it between forefinger and thumb and, as she had done every time before, she rubbed the washcloth gently down it. It twitched. She carefully pulled his foreskin down. It was like pulling on a jumper that was too small.
Katie stopped, and sighed. Still holding his penis.
‘Would you like me to?’
‘No.’
‘It’s ok. It’s my job.’
‘I’d rather it wasn’t a job.’
So there’s a stand off between them. She begins to give him hand jobs, but Frank doesn’t like the fact that Angels use gloves. They both know it’s artificial. He wants her to take her gloves off (hence the title).
And so on and so on. I didn’t finish this story because it was complicated, not just in the world I was creating, but also because I thought I needed to explain more the difference between Angels and ordinary nurses. Angels had to have some special reason for volunteering. Nurses would despise them. It was getting way too long and spiralling out of control.
But maybe someone can sort this out. If anyone wants me to send them the whole thing, let me know!
Active Ink Slinger
Putting them into this forum is a pretty good idea. Another site I know, I think it has a limit on the length of forum posts. There is a board called "Story Ideas," but one is encouraged to keep samples to three paragraphs or less.
One guy dumped all of his unfinished stories into one big essay and published it, not in the forum, but in the Novels and Novellas section. It's six pages long, which must be about 35,000 words. He got away with it.
One guy dumped all of his unfinished stories into one big essay and published it, not in the forum, but in the Novels and Novellas section. It's six pages long, which must be about 35,000 words. He got away with it.
Active Ink Slinger
This is a brilliant idea.
I often have a few stories on the go at once. Currently got five stories on going and a sixth which is just a load of bullet points. A couple of these projects have been dancing around my head with me jotting things down for well over a year now. I used to scoff when I heard authors on the radio talk about their characters as if they were real people and say that they didn't know what they were going to do but the reason for some of my projects have stalled is for that exact reason.
I often have a few stories on the go at once. Currently got five stories on going and a sixth which is just a load of bullet points. A couple of these projects have been dancing around my head with me jotting things down for well over a year now. I used to scoff when I heard authors on the radio talk about their characters as if they were real people and say that they didn't know what they were going to do but the reason for some of my projects have stalled is for that exact reason.
Advanced Wordsmith
I too have too many projects going on at the same time. I need to sit down and either finish them one by one or as this thread suggests leave them here for somebody to find and make something of them. Good idea.
///////////tom
///////////tom
"There is a principle which is a bar against all information, which is proof against all arguments and which cannot fail to keep a man in everlasting ignorance that principle is contempt prior to investigation."
Herbert Spencer
Active Ink Slinger
Quote by cethpada
This is a brilliant idea.
I often have a few stories on the go at once. Currently got five stories on going and a sixth which is just a load of bullet points. A couple of these projects have been dancing around my head with me jotting things down for well over a year now. I used to scoff when I heard authors on the radio talk about their characters as if they were real people and say that they didn't know what they were going to do but the reason for some of my projects have stalled is for that exact reason.
Yeah, I published a story on another site that was supposed to be the first of a series, but for over a year I had no idea how to continue it. Then in the last month the sequels started coming to mind and I started writing them. So if you are stalled, eventually it may start moving again.
Characters who seem like real people? Definitely; once you create them they take on a life of their own.
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