The Group Book Project

A collaborative fiction writing project, where each Monday, a new writer continues the story in their own style.

[thegroupbook-blog]

WHERE ARE THE NEW CHAPTERS?!?!?!

I know, I know.

Technology and I have been fighting for about a week and a half, as I went 5 days without power, and then my internet decided it didn't want to work for an additional three.

So, I am getting things re-organized, and the book will continue Monday...and we'll catch up on new chapters throughout the week.

[thegroupbook-blog]

Chapter VI: The Man With The Movie Camera

Written By, Ethan Fixell

When Francis woke, sprawled on the floor of his shed, he could feel a warm tongue licking his face. Oh, how he had missed the touch of a woman. And this, well, it certainly felt -- as his elementary school friend Borat used to say on the playground while squeezing the nubbins of their pre-pubescent female classmates -- “niiiiiiiice.”

Francis’s eyes gradually came into focus until he saw Canterbury’s furry mug just inches from his own. He reached for his sore head, trying to recall how he had gotten home. Nothing came to mind.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. Francis sat up abruptly, reaching for his helmet.

“Wh…who goes there?” he said.

The door flew open, and standing in front of him was the creepiest man Francis had ever seen: Wearing tight polyester pants, a filthy pair of green-tinted imitation Ray-Ban sunglasses, an Adidas track jacket, and a thick platinum chain in the shape of a giant ass, the man smiled, showing off his many gold-capped teeth.

“Your time is up, Francis. You’re coming with us. And now you’ll start coming for us,” he sneered.

“Who are you?” said Francis, still in utter shock.

The man laughed. “You can call me Raul. Now let’s go.”

Somewhere in the shed, Canterbury purred. 

*          *          *

Pulling up in a pimped-out Lambo, Francis and Raul arrived at what was the most lavish estate Francis had ever seen. Having spent most of his life in a tiny shack, he guessed that this giant structure must resemble what the Playboy Mansion once looked like when it still existed.

Raul exited the car and once again dragged Francis by the arm, leading him up the stairs and into the house which threatened, via a sign staked into its vast front lawn:

BEWARE OF DOG – WILL FUCK YOU UP!

“Where are you taking me?!” Francis shouted. He could hear a large canine barking in the distance.

Raul merely grunted and continued to walk Francis towards the back of the seemingly endless house. The hallways were lined with movie poster after movie poster, all boasting overtly erotic names such as “Cherry Popper 3,” “Titty Bounce 4,” and “Niagjizz Falls.”

Eventually they reached an office with a nameplate that read: “Mero Baklava: Head ‘Head.’” Raul opened the door, and both of them walked inside.

“Greetings, Francis,” said Mero in his thick Turkish accent. “We’ve been waiting very, very long time for you.” Next to him stood a giant Rottweiler, panting heavily in the hot office.

“Who the hell are you? And what do you want with me?” asked Francis.

“Sit down, we talk,” said the elderly Turk. “Would you like some coffee? Perhaps to smoke some hookah?  It is mint flavored – very refreshing.”

Too tired to do anything else, Francis took a seat. “I don’t want a thing from you.”

“Relax, Francis. Perhaps we have get off on wrong foot, yes?” Mero grinned widely, and popped a fresh toothpick into his yapper. “My name is Mero Baklava,” he began. “And I have waited 30 years for your cock.”

Francis recognized the voice. It was a consolidation of the many twisted voices that had haunted him for so many years. The purity of it sent shivers down his spine.

“You’re in the presence of the greatest porn producer of the 22nd century,” Raul piped in. “Mero holds 36 AVN awards.”

“What?” said Francis.

“Adult Video News Awards,” explained Raul. “It’s like the Academy Awards of adult film. He won ‘Best Film’ for six years straight starting in 2118.”

“Twenty-one-nineteen, you imbecile,” corrected Mero. “In 2118, we lost to ‘Vaginas Vaginas Vaginas.’” He turned back to Francis. “But this is of no interest to you. Nor do I care to regale you with my accolades. I have bring you here to finally claim what is mine.”

“I don’t have anything of yours,” said Francis, now boiling with rage.

“Oh, but you do. I need that dick, Francis. I need it to make the greatest adult film of all time.”

Francis’ shoulder sunk. This was all starting to make sense.

“We are responsible for all of the fine films in the posters you see all around you. We are the Dark Ones, Francis. And ‘Dark Ones Video’ is our empire.”

Francis looked at Mero blankly.

Mero threw his arms up. “When I moved to States, we first specialize in all-black movies, alright? Do you know how expensive it is to change the name of LLC? Lawyers will bleed you dry -- ”

“I don’t care about any of this,” Francis interrupted. “I want to know how you got inside my head to torture me for the last 30 years!”

Mero held his hand in the air dismissively. “Torture is such harsh word! We try to persuade you to come here year after year. But you are resistant little bastard, aren’t you Francis?” Mero sat up and lowered his voice. “I know of your talents for such a long time – and I knew right away, as soon as I meet you. I saw greatness. Even as a little baby, you were incredibly well-endowed. The ‘Boy with the Golden Penis,’ they call you, though I just call you a ‘Star.’ But, of course, I was not able to take you as my own…or buy you…or even steal you, like I normally do.”

Mero laughed a throaty, filthy laugh, one marred by years of smoking – or drinking motor oil. Raul joined in with his own sweaty guffaw.

“So you’re a sex slaver, too?” asked Francis.

“Not slaver – talent scout!  How else do you think Jarvon become a star like she is?”

Jarvon slinked into the room with a silent grace that nearly took Francis’ breath away. Her movements aroused Francis in a way that he had never felt before. And God, had it been a long time…

He ogled her magnificent body. That waist…. Those luscious breasts…. The silky smooth skin… 

“Hello Francis,” she purred.

“Hello,” Francis mumbled.

“I’m looking forward to shooting with you.”

Dazed, Francis caught himself just before he began to drool. Jarvon sat down next to Mero, and looked up at him, encouraging him to continue.

“But you…you are special, Francis,” Mero went on. “You are ‘protected goods.’ And so, we use telepathic methods to try to...eh… persuade, as I say. And you always trying to ignore us with these inventions of yours. Thirty-NINE of them! Well, we finally figure out how to break invention, and break you. We track you down, and you will NEVER get past that waterfall.”

“Oh, yeah? And what if I do?”

Mero let out an enormous belly laugh. “You won’t leave here to find out!” His expression turned quite serious as he placed his hands on the table. “Now.  Let me see it.”

Francis stared defiantly into Mero’s eyes. He didn’t dare move a muscle.

“Let. Me. SEE IT!”

Slowly, Francis rose from the chair and reached into his pants. He pulled his tightly fisted hand out and opened it slowly to reveal the candy and marbles.

“What is this?” said Mero. “A child’s toys? Are you still a little baby? Those are not the balls I wish to see.”

Francis continued to stare at Mero, never breaking his gaze for a second.

“Now show me….the money shot.”

“You want the money shot?” Francis said, doing his best Dirty Harry. He moved the candy into his left hand. “I’ll show you the money shot.”

In an instant, Francis tossed the candy to the side of the room as if emptying the chamber of a gun – a mere distraction -- and used his newly free hand to grab the hidden slingshot from his back pocket. Seamlessly, he loaded it with a marble and fired directly into Mero’s left eye.

Mero howled in pain. “Grab him!”

But Raul was too late – Francis had already taken off and was running down the long hallway towards the front door.

Jarvon couldn’t keep her lips from forming a barely discernable smirk.

[thegroupbook-blog]

Chapter V: Sound In A Dark Room

Written By: Joel Freimark

The table was a long one.  Too long in fact for the six chairs that had been sitting around it for nearly forty years.  While this reality had certainly bothered each of the chair’s occupants over that time, none of them deemed it important enough to discuss in the open.  Instead, they would give glances to the far ends of the unoccupied ends and shrug or roll their eyes in frustration.  The ends of the table also played a visual contrast in the fact that the top remained in perfect condition, as it had barely been touched in that time.  The gleam and gloss reflected the pin-lights above in a manner that could be blinding if stared at from the wrong angle.  Each of the six had learned where those angles were over the years, and did their best to stay away from that point of view.

Aside from the table and chairs, the room was virtually empty, save a small television display that was linked to their elaborate CCTV system that ran through the forest, and a rather hefty tomb of a book that held the records of the moments of their various subjects over the years.  Many of the early pages had yellowed, but the writing was still sharp, and revisited to ensure that their calculations were precise.  Nobody wanted to harvest a brain that was not yet ripe…especially this one.  A single mistake or decimal out of place could cost them the entirety of nearly four decades of work…and nobody wanted to have to answer for that.  There was also the blue bulb on the wall above the door that had remained firmly shut since the building was constructed.

Sitting at the end of the table, Mero began to tap his finger slowly on the deep mahogany tabletop, making the others well aware of his rapidly dwindling patience at the situation.  He sat back slowly, looking past the two across from him and seeming to address nobody in specific.  “Tell me again how he modified it? Amuse me with how yet again, our subject has managed to outwit us without knowing exactly what he was trying to do in the first place.”

Jarvon cleared her throat, “Well you see, Sir…” she paused, knowing the reaction she’d get. If nothing less, Mero was predictable in his explosions.  “He’s coated the helmet in a new substance that has caused significant interference in our readings of his brain-wave patterns.”  She took another deep breath, “And I regret to say, it’s not one we’ve seen before.”

Mero rolled his right hand into a fist, his knuckles cracking without any real effort.  His eyes moved to the center of the tabletop, “But of course…a new technique…how many times is this?”  His eyes moved up, fixated on the dirty eye-glasses of Raul.

Upon feeling the icy stare, Raul shifted in his seat a number of times, fumbling with his glasses and generally avoiding the subject as he struggled to open his mouth.  His hands moved around the table in front of him in a rather chaotic manner, as a single bead of sweat appeared on his forehead.  “Well, you see…errr….Sir…if our, numbers are…” The panic set in completely, his mind racing off in countless directions, all seeming to be as far from the answer as possible.  “Numbers, you see…they tend to be a tricky lot that can be…they can…skew the reality of the situation at hand when examined from the wrong perspective or without proper clari-“

“ENOUGH!” bellowed Mero; the sound of his voice reverberating off of the walls as it did nearly every time they collectively found themselves in the meeting room.  Gritting his teeth, he leaned forward to Raul slightly, his eyes piercing his body as he spoke slowly, “All. I. Want. Is a number.”

Softly, almost in a whisper, with his eyes locked on the area of table directly in front of him, Raul forced the words from his mouth, “Thirty-nine......Sir.”

*          *          * 

In the forest, the rain seemed to have tapered off a bit, though this was only due to the fact that the tree cover was keeping much of it from hitting Francis as he zig-zagged through the woods in no discernable direction.  Every now and then, his eyes would spin to the top of his head, looking as best he could at the hat on his head, letting it know his appreciation for its inanimate efforts.  Without his trusty safety-shield, he’d have perished decades earlier…or simply gone mad in his small shed of a home.

It had taken months of experiments before he had stumbled across his latest successful modification; the alteration to his helmet that once again allowed him to exit his self-made prison and explore the forest he’d known his whole life.  As he walked through the trees and brush, his mind cleared more and more, and his direction began to take shape in his mind.  He’d gotten to this point many times before, and knew full well that in every case previously, The Voices began to return shortly from the position at which he now stood.

He could never explain this predictable phenomenon.  Many times he’d attempted going off in different directions, thinking that perhaps it was a border of some sort, but when this proved to be false, he began to speculate that the power of The Voices could only be fooled by his modifications for a set amount of time.  Even when he hurried his movements, hoping to get back to the bottom of the waterfall where it all began, The Voices found him too quickly and he would find himself waking up back in his shed, his mind having great difficulty in piecing back together how exactly he returned to his home.

The waterfall, he knew, held something he needed, some sort of answer.

*          *          *

The blue light on the wall began to flash faster and faster as they sat around the table, each of them growing more nervous by the second.  With each increase in speed, the tension in the room grew, and Mero’s frustration approached a point from which even he himself questioned if he could return.  Like each of them, he knew the consequences if the light reached a solid state of constant luminescence.  It was a truth and reality they trembled at the mere thought of; though each of them knew that the fifty-three minutes that had passed were far and away the longest they’d experienced.  Clearly, The Subject had learned a great deal over the decades of their work, though none of them could figure out exactly how he’d achieved this level of knowledge.

Mero looked to the door at the far end of the room, the faint sound of beakers being shifted and computer keys being pressed could be heard, punctuated here and there by an irritated curse word in some random language.  His eyes shifted back to the blue bulb on the wall, flashing ever faster as the minutes wore down.

*          *          *

A jolt of energy shot through Francis as memories of old guided his way through the dark forest.  He’d not made it this far into the woods since his first encounter with the waterfall all those decades ago, and yet the path was clear and precise in his mind.  He’d not felt excitement in so long that he could barely contain letting a smile cross his face as the feeling swept through his body.  Salvation, or simply some sort of answer was close at hand, to a point that he could taste the spray from the water as it crashed onto the stones beneath.  What it would be, he had no clue; but he knew in his heart that when he reached the clearing, it would somehow explain itself.

Around a large boulder and over a few fallen tree trunks, and over the noise of the rain on the leaves above, he could faintly hear the sound of the waterfall.  It was a noise that brought back scores of memories and emotions, and he nearly lost his footing when these sensations hit him full force.  Steadying himself, he broke into an all-out run, the combination of exhilaration and elation pumping adrenaline into his aged body, allowing it to move faster than even he thought possible.

The ground seemed to fly underneath his feat, his eyes darting from side to side in an effort to avoid any branches or other obstacles on his path.  The noise of the waterfall increased with every step, until the point that he could barely hear the rain.  Through the dark, he saw the opening, he saw what he knew was the clearing he’d dreamed of entering again after more than four decades of anguished attempted.

He pushed a large bush aside, seeing the final dozen yards ahead of him completely clear of hindrance.  His smile pushed the limits of his face muscles as he threw himself toward his salvation.

*          *          *

Suddenly, the light stopped flashing and went out. The five at the table all took a moment of pause, then looked to one another with slight nods of relief before standing and exiting the room in various directions.

[thegroupbook-blog]

Chapter IV: Voices In The Sky

Written By, Suzanna Ramos

The rain fell persistently through the night, landing, as rain so often does, in heavy, unforgiving plops.  Of those, a good few managed to land themselves on the man who was currently slowly and carefully making his way along the well-worn path.  The rain showed no mercy, spattering his glasses with its obscuring drops in such a way that had it been daylight the man would have been no better off in terms of vision.  The rain seemed to have no effect on the man, however.  Despite the torrid downpour the man called Francis continued determinedly, almost possessed, along his journey, water racing quickly down the sides of his funny, shiny hat. The humidity of the darkened air mixed with the falling water created a dense, fog-like atmosphere that Francis knew all too well.  At least for now, his mind was undeniably clear.  It hadn’t always been that way.  Memories of his younger self rose up, back when this whole thing had begun, back when he’d been unknowingly chosen.  He had been the strongest but still weak, too young, capable of nothing like he was on this day.  Francis couldn’t help but relive the fear and confusion of just an innocent, unwilling young boy, who somehow found himself in way in over his head.  

For a while now, Francis had been feeling strange.  He couldn’t explain why, but he found himself in an almost constant state of dizziness and confusion on an absolute day-to-day basis; the haze only ever clearing, only slightly, when other people were around and directly addressing him.  In those saving moments he’d slowly come to, like a morning fog was finally lifting in his mind.  However, being an only child ensured he was on his own all too often.  It was these vague, trancelike states made it impossible for Francis to do any of the things he loved, like eating, and more importantly, adventuring.  It was confusing, sure, but it was also frightening.  Francis longed to know what was going on, and why all of these strange things were happening to him.   He started hearing things.  Night after night, one or both of his parents were summoned into Francis’ room to investigate the strange whispering noises that they never seemed to be able to hear for themselves.  Francis would beg them to stay with him, positively shaking with the fear of it.  So of course they stayed until the boy fell asleep.  They walked out exhausted, sighing and exchanging quiet mumbles to the tune of, “I’m sure it’s just a phase,” and, “I bet he’ll be over it soon.”  For Francis, falling asleep with tears of frustration and fear on his face became commonplace.    Even falling asleep was no respite.  Francis’ dreams were unsettling.  He dreamed often of an empty room with large shadows creeping up the walls, always looming over him as he tried to hide himself from sight.  There was no escaping them, however, and Francis was always forced to watch as the shadows crept across the room, engulfing him in their darkness.  Sometimes, though, if Francis willed it hard enough, they wouldn’t approach.  Those nights the shadows just watched him, ever tall and foreboding; although even unmoving as they were, their very presence was enough to give Francis chills.  These night terrors were a perhaps the worst part of all for Francis, as they awoke him many times, the young boy bolting up in the night, confused and scared and drenched in a cold sweat all at once. He also seemed to be getting more forgetful.  He would put things down around the house and then spend countless hours trying to find them again.  He could never recall what he got up to on any given day, even when his father would ask him gently as they washed for supper. He could swear there were times when his thoughts would vanish entirely, as if someone had simply erased them from his head.  There were even rare times when Francis found himself somewhere he didn’t remember walking.  These incidents were especially nerve wracking for the boy.  

* * *

As he walked, the now-older Francis touched a hand to the foil helmet fondly.  It was wet from the rain, but so was everything else.  It had changed drastically over the years; he was constantly trying to construct something that was stronger and more resilient.  His matted and dripping hair reminded him that for all his effort to ensure the hat kept away outside forces, he never took time to consider the natural ones.   Francis smiled in the darkness, remembering his very first attempt.  It was a flimsy thing and Francis suspected it hadn’t actually served a purpose, except perhaps to act as a placebo for his younger self.  Whatever the truth was, it had worked spectacularly.  The hat saved him from a month of complete misery and helplessness.  If he had gone on the way he had been for even a week longer, he would have cracked.  The simple construction all those years ago had probably saved his life.

* * *

No one saw Francis sneak the aluminum foil up to his room.  If this act of stealth didn’t work, he knew he would surely go insane.  As things for Francis got worse and worse, he thought again and again back to that day in the woods.  He thought about the strange encounter, the events that had transpired and the pair of keys he’d found.  Everything seemed to be connected, but it was all hopelessly jumbled and knotted, banging around in his head like a ball of loose yarn.  Even if Francis could clear his mind long enough to think properly, there was simply no way his young mind could piece it together.  One afternoon in a moment of pure frustration, he took the rusty keys and flung them across his room with an angry yelp.  They sailed smoothly, in a high, purposeful arc, and landed with a loud jangle in the corner of the room. He just wanted it all to stop.  Now hunched over in his room, Francis worked quickly at constructing a crude aluminum foil cap.  He put every ounce of effort he had into concentrating, just in case he suddenly forgot what he was doing.  It was something he saw in a movie once; covering his head would surely stop the bad guys from messing with his brain.  In reality, it was probably useless, but at least it would make him feel better.  As he cut unsteadily through the metal sheet he pictured someone with their face hidden in shadow, stealing his thoughts; he imagined they would suck them straight up from his head like a strawberry milkshake.  The imagery alone made him shudder.   He flourished the hat with a few pieces of tape to hold it together, and looked down rather proudly at his creation.  “Only, now what?” he thought.  “This hat more than definitely needs a good adventure,” he reasoned with himself.  Slipping the hat on his head, Francis gathered up his usual crew of adventuring supplies.  He pocketed a bit of candy, his slingshot, some marbles and, after a brief moment of contemplation, he even begrudgingly retrieved the rusty old keys from the far corner of the room and tucked them in his pants with all the rest. Stepping outside, the first thing he noticed was the sun.  It beamed an energizing and deep yellow energy, contrasting beautifully with the delicate crystal blue of a cloudless sky.  Clear and bright sunshine surrounded Francis, lending him immediate calmness and warmth.  The air was crisp and clean smelling and the bordering trees were a vibrant, healthy green, their leaves swaying slightly in a light breeze.  He thought he could almost feel his mind clearing.  In that moment, Francis finally felt like himself for the first time in a month.  Securing the hat on his head with a grin, he started off at a fair trot through the brush.  

* * *

The Dark Ones watched the boy.  They watched him from their carefully measured distance, not failing to notice the strange new element he’d introduced.  They pondered its significance and its probable connection to their recent lack of feedback.  The loss of input capability, while not threatening to the mission, had been wholly unsettling.  It only confirmed what the Dark Ones were already sure of.  This boy very well could be the one they needed.  The still growing mind was supple yet firm.  It had been approximately a month since the primary encounter, and the child had already retaliated with notable force…   The transmissions, while assuredly standard to the mission, all seemed to take on a strange twist toward the receiving end.  Most notably, the necessary tools seemed to have completely changed, but of course a child’s mind was not the optimum for a transfer.  In any case, they would have to make do with what the boy deemed suitable.  Considering the short list of even slightly reasonable receivers they had no choice; even as a child this one held a clear advantage: the highest calculated probability of success.  They could do no business with weak minds, and one failure was more than enough.  The one called Francis was promising, but certainly not ready.  The time would come.  So they watched.  And they waited.

[thegroupbook-blog]

Chapter III: Blood On The Valley Floor

Written By, Andrew Hanley

The fair-haired man trod carefully through the forest. His quivering eyes darted back and forth between his chosen course and the areas he moved upon. Though there was not a soul around for miles, the man strived to remain as quiet as possible. But even he knew it was near impossible to trek through a wooded area without disturbing something, even if it was only the silence. In a way, the situation reminded the man of his adolescence, when he used to sneak past his parent’s bedroom in an effort to make an appearance at whatever unsupervised get-together was attracting the attention of the high school populous. Back then, his creeping never went unnoticed either and now, he wished his parents were with him, even if only to deliver a scolding.

The sky was clear but shrouded from the man’s view by the trees that stood menacingly above all else in the forest. The moon was full and was holding its distance from the earth tonight, making the man feel all the more alone, which both chilled and comforted him simultaneously. The man’s father had once told him of how the full moon tampers with the mind of all living things, causing them to act in an unnatural manner, but this was generally applied to the somewhat erratic sales of canned goods from the family’s convenience store and hardly proof of lunar malevolence.

The man paced onward as gently as he could, snapping twigs swiftly and brutally under the weight of his boots. It couldn’t be much farther, he thought. The man turned his head slightly to the left and then he saw it. Deciding that this task had gone on long enough and especially since it was near its end, the man set off at a canter toward his mark. Upon his arrival, the man raised his arm and reached out. The maple tree was unmistakeable and was one that first enticed the man many years ago. The tree was old and among its many arresting features were the grooves that ran down the bark, weaving and dancing together. The distinct markings reminded the man of Circus Trees, of which he had seen pictures of when he was a young boy. However, this enchanting maple was more subtle, more natural and infinitely more magical. Its leaves were a bright and vibrant red, which was significant of fall. The purity of the colour made the tree look more alive than any person could ever possibly be, although the sight of it made the man feel almost that vigorous. The man let his fingers slip through the channels of the tree, feeling the warm touch of familiarity and for a moment forgot about the unnerving obligation he was irrevocably charged with. 

The trickling of the water in an otherwise soundless wood stirred the man from his moment of rest. He raised his head and looked past the tree toward the stream. The shallow water busily scrabbling past the stones and other obstacles might has well have been an arrow, pointing the way to the man’s destination. The man sighed and stood up as if rudely awakened from a wondrous dream. He looked one last time at the old maple and gave a silent goodbye to his boyhood friend. The man marched toward the stream and stopped, letting the water brush through his feet, undeterred. His eyes followed the water as it charged over one of numerous cascades, leading down into the secluded glen. The man slithered his right hand into his pocket and reached to the bottom, clasping tightly what he found. Good. They’re still there, he thought reassuringly. The man knew he was going to need them.

*          *          * 

The man followed the water and as it became more aggressive, the man found it harder to trail along. The stream had steadily become a river and the river was now thrashing in a turbulent act of insubordination, as if the man’s very presence threatened its survival. The ground had turned to saturated mud as a result of the river sloshing off the rocks and impacting frequently upon the earth. The man stepped up onto a rock imbedded in the ground, fearing any more movement through the mud would result in a slip, leaving him to tumble down the incline, crashing violently into the many rocks that accompanied the river on its journey to the bottom of the falls. The route had become near-impassable, causing the man to leap from rock to rock in a desperate yet determined fashion.

As the man clambered and hurdled along his way, his ears picked up on the waterfall before his eyes had a chance to marvel at it. The man stood, rooted to the rock, disbelief clinging to his face. The waterfall had become a colossal cataract, the rapids charging over the edge of the rock with monstrous purpose, bellowing as they did so. The man brought his hands up to his face and wiped the water away from it. He would have loved to have been able to wipe off the look of perplexity along with the droplets but what he was witnessing was too incredulous. The waterfall had never been this fierce, he contemplated.  Granted, many years had passed since the man had last gazed upon it but nothing could account for this change in attitude. It sounded insane, but the forest was challenging him. Unfortunately, the man knew there was no going back.

*          *          * 

The man gritted his teeth as he grasped strenuously at the line of weathered rope. The man’s arm was stretched to such an extent that he felt like his muscles were exploding and his fingers were sprawled out as if trying to escape from his hand. His other hand, which was wrapped around a great birch emerging from the overhang of the waterfall, was beginning to lose its hold. The birch was too wide for the man to attain any form of grip on it. Therefore, the pressure of his own body fighting gravity was the only way for him to make an attempt at the rope. But gravity was winning and with that, the pressure was slowly dissipating.

The man’s fingertips were brushing off the rope as his hand slipped intermittently from the safety of the birch. As his hand fell free, he pushed away from the rock face with his legs and snatched the rope with both hands. The rope swayed gently as the man clutched it tightly and tried to regain his breath. It wouldn’t occur to him until a few moments later that he wasn’t exactly sure of how long this rope had been used as a shortcut down the waterfall, nor was he confident of whether it would have even held his weight to begin with. The man was in no way religious and would usually chalk events as such up to luck but in this case, his general circumstances at present were the furthest from fortunate, so he considered himself still in the minus column.

He lowered himself gradually, remaining painfully aware of how his upper body strength wasn’t what it once was. With every creak of the rope he embraced his own demise. It would be welcome at this stage of his life if not for the task at hand. The man tweaked his neck slightly and looked below. He had descended roughly three-quarters of the way down the rope but was still at a precarious height. The man thought back to his youth and felt astonished at how effortlessly his teenage self conquered this very rope time and time again. He remembered when he used to look upon danger and see only adventure, a notion that seemed so juvenile all these years later. Nature takes away our playthings one by one, he recited to himself.

The man’s arms were now shaking resignedly. He was unsure of whether it was the last of his strength giving out or the cold. The truth be told, it was probably both. He climbed lower hastily and just then his hands ran over a particularly coarse section of rope, cutting the man’s palms. The sudden pain was enough for the man’s strength to leave him for just a moment but more than enough time for him to fall. The man plunged backward and downward, his wounded hands fastened together in a pose of near-piety. He hit the rocks with a loud crack and cried out in anguish. The man writhed around on the rocks before rolling onto his side and whimpering pitifully.

*          *          * 

The man was lying at the edge of a great pool of water, the waterfall still feeding into it enormously. Idiot, he thought. You weren’t concentrating. As the man lay on his side he could feel the contents of his right pocket prodding into his leg. He expressed the smallest of smiles at knowing he had not lost them and also welcomed the trivial pain the prodding was responsible for, because it was the one solitary ache that was manageable. The man rolled onto his knees and firstly examined his palms. There were some minor abrasions that brought him to the conclusion that he wouldn’t be shaking hands with anyone in the immediate future but nothing more. The wound on the back of the man’s head was more serious. He ran his fingertips along his skull and felt a gash right above his occipital bone. It was bleeding and already starting to swell.

The man stood up and suddenly became very dizzy. He closed his eyes lifted his hands to his temples as the world tilted around him. It took the man a moment to regain his composure and he opened his eyes again. Without warning, an intense and tremendous white light blasted the man in the face, forcing him several steps back to the edge of the water. He held his hands in front of his face but the light seemed to burn right through them. The light was colossal, engulfing the entire glen and shining through every molecule of water and every piece of rock. The man reached into his right pocket and extracted the precious belongings inside.

As he raised his right hand, his fist closed tightly around the objects within, the light grew brighter and brighter to an unbearable level. The wood shook and for all the man knew, the Earth with it. Then, as if someone had flipped a switch, the light was gone and as the light went out, so did the lights in the man’s eyes. His hand fell to his side and opened, dropping its goods onto the rock with a metallic clang. The man’s body fell into the water and floated peacefully before eventually being consumed by the lake. The two keys lay on the rocks by the shore where they were uninterrupted for almost twenty years.

[thegroupbook-blog]

Chapter II: Francis

Written By, Joshua Nicholson

Francis was tall, thin, and grizzled, but he wasn't always that way. In fact, there was a time when most folks would classify him as an “adorable little scamp,” whose round cheeks attracted the grasping fingers of old ladies like moths to a flame: irresistibly pinchable.

Growing up in an area (you couldn't really call it a town) with only a few residents and an enormous amount of land, a lot of time could be spent exploring the wilderness, playing with sticks and bugs and frogs, and generally doing what young boys like to do: make a complete mess of themselves before dinner. It became a nightly ritual for Francis and his father to arrive home filthy from the day's labors (Francis: exploring, his father: 12 hours at the lumber mill) and immediately be turned away from the kitchen to go wash up out back. Francis' mother would not have filthy hands and faces at her dinner table.

One night, though, things were a bit different. Instead of his usual routine of curiously popping into the kitchen to see what deliciousness his mother had come up with and having his hand slapped away as he reached to taste something or snag a stray roll, Francis wandered through the kitchen in a daze. His mother was too busy fending off Father's wooden spoon from the stew to notice. A smile of exasperation on her face, she ushered them out, demanding they clean themselves up.

Father took note of his son's odd demeanor as they washed up but decided not to comment. He figured he'd let his boy gather his thoughts together. You don't rush someone to conclusions  when they're that deep in thought. You let them work it out. Francis was only halfheartedly washing up, just sloshing a bit of water here and there. So, Father silently helped him out, scrubbing away the day's dirt from his hands and face.

At dinner, Mother chatted away about the letter she got from her sister, who lived three towns away. Apparently, they just got a new drug store ice cream parlor there, and it was very popular. Normally, such news would cause Francis to instantly start plotting a way to make frequent trips to his aunt's house so he could stuff his face with frozen treats, but he just sat there silently, barely touching his food.

Mother remarked that Father devoured his bowl of stew so quickly that he “barely took time to enjoy it!” When she looked over at Francis' full bowl, she asked him, “You feeling alright, Francis? You usually love my stew.”

“I'm not hungry,” he replied, still deep in thought.

“You're not feeling sick, are you? A warm stew should make you feel better if you are.”

“I'm not sick. May I be excused?” His voice was flat, emotionless.

“Okay,” Mother said with a worried look on her face. “You go on and take a bath, then. I don't want you to sleep in those dirty clothes.”

Slowly, Francis got up from the table and lumbered off to the bathroom. Father stroked Mother's hand reassuringly. “Don't worry about him, dear. He'll tell us what's on his mind when he's ready.” 

* * * 

43 years later, the happenings of that day were still firmly fixed in the front of his mind.

Francis stood up from the chair at the window and checked his pockets to be sure he had what he needed in there: three gumballs, a button, and a box of mint-flavored candy cigarettes in his left pocket; three marbles and two keys tied together with a length of twine in the right; and a slingshot in his back left. He quickly moved to his boxes, grabbing out rain boots, a poncho, an umbrella, and something that looked a bit like a Roman helmet made out of aluminum foil. He put on the boots, poncho, and helmet at a very deliberate pace.

His feline friend would not be coming with him in this storm, willfully or otherwise. From one of the other boxes, he grabbed a tin of cat food and peeled back the lid. The sound made the cat perk its head up from the box in which she was napping, and she watched intently as Francis placed the can next to her.

Stepping quickly to the door, Francis paused for a moment and turned to see the cat happily gobbling down the food, her tail swishing leisurely as she ate. “Canterbury,” said Francis to the cat, “if I don't make it back, you must learn to survive on the birds and mice in the wilderness.”

With that, he quickly closed the door, only to open it again moments later and add, “And, stay away from the racoons. They aren't very nice.”

Now, he was off, off into the cold, pouring rain, off into the nearly pitch black woods. He didn't need a lamp for this trek, or a flashlight or a torch or even a single waterproof match. Francis knew this path so well that he could have walked it blindfolded and may as well have been, it was so dark. How he'd seen any movement at all at the end of the path is a mystery, even to himself.

It was happening, wasn't it? This was all really happening. He'd been waiting for so long that he'd almost started to doubt the day would ever come. Was he ready for it? Had he properly prepared himself for this? He'd told himself that he had. 30 years ago, when he built his shed at this end of the woods, he'd told himself he had.

He wasn't ready as a child, not at all. Well, it was so unexpected then, he reasoned with himself decades later. What does a 10-year-old know about these sorts of things?

* * *

It was fall. There wasn't really a school in the area. So, Francis' mother taught him his lessons. They'd finished his schooling for the day, and he inhaled his lunch as fast as possible so he could get on with the day's adventuring. 10 years old and already so smart, his mother thought to herself. She was immensely happy that he was one of those odd children who actually liked lessons, but she knew that he liked exploring more. He was always itching to go outside by the end of her teaching. He never stopped to actually enjoy his lunch, either. Food was fuel, daylight was burning, and it was time seize the day!

Like many boys, Francis usually had a odd assortment of things in his pockets. He never had a specific plan them. It was all there “just in case”. In case of what, he didn't know.

He always liked to have a little candy on him, and today, he had a few gumballs and a half-eaten packet of mint-flavored candy cigarettes, all in his left pocket. Unlike his lunch, these are things that he actually did savor. He wasn't the kind to gobble down all the candy he could find and frantically look for more. He took his time with these, which is why he still had half a pack of the candy cigarettes.

He also carried around random things he would find on his adventures. A couple of weeks back, he had discovered a couple of old, rusty keys. He didn't know of anything that needed opening. So, he just slipped them in his pocket in case he found something that did. He had the keys in his right pocket, tied together with a length of twine.

He kept his slingshot in his back left pocket and the ammunition, which today happened to be marbles, in his right front pocket for fast loading. He would sometimes practice how fast he could load and fire, like a gunslinger in those westerns he loved to read. The gumballs could also be used as ammo, but he thought it best to keep them in a separate pocket so he didn't accidentally bite down on a marble.

With these tools, he felt like he could take on the world, and he strode out into the wilderness to prove it.

* * * 

A crack of thunder brought Francis' thoughts keenly back to the task at hand. He hoped the downpour wasn't making the gumballs sticky in his pocket as he trudged along the muddy path. He wanted one of the candy cigarettes now but left them in his pocket for fear of getting the whole pack of them wet.

On he stomped, boyishly, gleefully, to meet his fate.

[thegroupbook-blog]

Chapter I: The Sonata

Written By, Joel Freimark

That night, it rained. It bucketed down for hours on end; to the point that no living creature with any sense at all would dare leave their cover for even a moment.  The rain fell in sheets, and at times it was so heavy that it seemed as if the walls of water were completely still.  It beat the plants into the ground, replacing the lower inches of the surface with a thick mist of bouncing droplets.  The sheer amount of water that was hitting the ground created an almost deafening noise, and yet in the way that only rain can be, it was somehow soothing simultaneously.

The water spilled down the small hills, creating pools at the bottom, and all but flooding the random plants attempting to grow here and there.  As the land meandered toward the only structure around, it ripped the petals from the purposefully planted flowers, letting the cold, clear water mix with the varying shades of blue and red.  Creating tiny streams of their own, parts of the lawn in front of the structure turned into an odd rainbow of sorts, though due to the absence of light, this passing moment of unplanned beauty went completely unappreciated.

*          *          * 

The sole structure in the area wasn’t much to look at, nor was it anything near what most people would refer to as “warm” or “welcoming.”  In many ways, one could see the building as a product of someone simply picking up random scraps and putting them together, much like birds create their nests.  However, though it made no logical sense, the structure in question had a purposeful design, known only to its builder, who was also its lone bipedal occupant.

The structure, or perhaps better stated, small hut or shed, was comprised of weather-beaten slats of wood, combined with loose aluminum sheeting and other odd pieces of what would best be described as junk.  Yet even with the rather primitive materials, the footprint was significant, and inside there were half a dozen separate spaces, all decorated and filled with the same, Spartan approach.  A wood-burning stove, a few chairs, and some cardboard boxes in varying states of empty were all that could be found.  Then of course, there was the lone window, which sat somewhat awkwardly, yet securely in the Eastern facing wall; and it was this pane of glass that provided a majority of the light inside. 

*          *          *

For hours, he simply sat at the window, staring out into whatever distance the rain would allow.  Unmoving, breathing slowly and quietly, around him could be felt an aura of serenity matched in consistency only by the rhythm of the rain on the other side of the glass.  The unwavering stillness of his body and presence was almost hypnotic, perhaps Zen; as neither the changes in the sounds outside, nor the dropping temperature due to the snuffed fireplace seemed to be able to stir him from his state.

At the same time, while the peaceful quiet could not be denied, there was clearly something at work behind his calm eyes.  It was the way that every minute or so, they would quickly scan for something in the distance; something that given the weather, could not possibly be seen.  Yet even with this reality, the deep examination of the black in front of him never ceased. 

While he knew in his mind that the path was there, as he’d walked it countless times over the years, the rain would not allow him to confirm its existence visually.  Yet it was clearly far down the path where he was concentrating.  Even had the rain not been present, it would have been nearly impossible to see the far end of the path, but this did not seem to matter to his eyes, as they focused and strained to cut through the methodical dance of water from the sky.

The only other movement to be detected was that of his right ring finger, as it slowly ran along the front two inches of the arm of the chair in which he sat.  The slight depression in the woodwork was a testament to how many hours he had spent in this exact same position over the years, as the movement had become something beyond subconscious by now.

While the man in question was as still as one can imagine, the structure in which he had taken refuge from the downpour was almost entirely different.  As each wave of thunder cracked, the walls shook, often to an extent where a more aware being would have been quite concerned about the overall ability of these shoddy walls to withstand the storm.  A fracture in the woodwork on the South side had been letting in gusts of wind for hours, and it was this unchecked flaw that had extinguished the fire, as well as causing the interior ground to become sodden, slowly spreading to the other side of the room.

The man in the chair seemed to either not notice or not care about this rather unfortunate occurrence, and yet the other occupant of the building was perhaps as annoyed as any creature in history. 

The slightly overweight, ginger colored cat had been quite happily sleeping through the storm in the warmth of the black stove, occasionally flipping over rather clumsily to warm the other side of her belly.  For hours, the cat experimented with different ways of sleeping at the foot of the stove, attempting to find the position that provided maximum warmth, as physical comfort in odd, sprawled shapes is something that only cats can understand the pleasure in. 

After about three hours of turning herself into a pretzel and placing her feet in a variety of styles that resembled people attempting to adjust television antennae, “that” position of perfect relaxation and comfort was discovered, and she slipped into a very deep sleep, dreaming the strange things that occupy the idle mind of a cat.

Yet as luck would have it, as she found herself in this wonderful delirium, the water coming in from the cracked wall began to creep more quickly in her direction, soaking the ground under her, and providing for a rather rude and frustrating wake-up call.  After being startled from her slumber, she started questioningly at the man in the chair, and seeing no response from him, she padded off to find a coat or old sweater to sleep under, as regardless of her internal temperature, more warmth was always necessary for maximum feline sleeping efficacy. 

*          *          *

The hours slowly meandered by, though in a building with no clocks, time was as arbitrary as anywhere, and the man in the chair seemed little concerned over finding his own bed, or the fact that he was beginning to see his own, soft breath as the cold began to overtake the entire space.  His mind was clearly elsewhere, and was likely to stay wherever that was until it has completed whatever odd task it had been up to since he first sat in the chair before the rain had even begun.

Slowly, with no real cause to be seen, the man reached up and removed his glasses that were perched near the end of his nose, balancing ever so delicately, as they were not well secured over his ears.  He methodically folded them without looking, leaning closer to the window, as if these few inches would allow him to see further through natural turmoil outside.  He fumbled with the glasses for a moment, attempting to slide them into the breast pocket of his red and black shirt, though even has he struggled to find the right placement, his eyes remained fixated on the nothingness in the distance.

Then, in a brief moment where the rain seemed to taper slightly, he thought he saw a slight movement off in the distance.  Many would have written it off as the eyes playing tricks on the brain, but after all these years of the same schedule, he knew that while certainly a bit quirky, his mind was as clear as ever, and no subtle trickery was afoot.

The left side of his mouth raised ever so slightly, as he knew it was time.

[thegroupbook-blog]

An Introduction To The Group Book Project

Welcome! This will all kick off on January 1, 2013, and before you read on, let's explain exactly "what" this is all about.

The Group Book Project is based on the idea that everyone can write, and that the art of story telling is one of the most basic functions of humanity.  All of the great tales of history began from spoken word and as "group knowledge," and in some ways, this is meant to be a return to that.

Each Monday (aside from the first entry), a new chapter will be posted, with each chapter being written by a different author.  These authors come from all walks of life, from all around the world. Different ages, backgrounds, writing styles and abilities. It is this diversity that should take the story in many wonderful directions.

There are only two requirements that each author must follow:

1. The story must continue and make sense with everything that has come before. As in, things will continue along a general lineage of what came previously.

2. Each chapter must be between 1500-3000 words.

Every 5th chapter will be written by the nutty brain behind the project, so that the story does not end up in an unintentional rut and to avoid a few things that could occur over the course of the project.

So please join us for what is sure to be an amusing and unpredictable ride into story telling and adventure. 

If you'd like more information or to be a part of the project, send us an email at [email protected]