Day Five

Fields of dead cornstalks line the memory. Gloomy sentinels whispering mother was murdered. Dawn turns away from them as the truck speeds west. Her eyes fix on her father’s hands instead. His grip on the steering wheel is light, but something about him always feels tightly coiled, like a jack-in-the-box. One more crank, a few more notes—and then what?

The northern Saskatchewan highway flops before them like discarded snakeskin. They’re driving to Dawson City; he wants them to see Canada together. They’ll stay at a motel tonight, then head for Alberta tomorrow. Her dad likes the back roads. They stop to fish a lot.

Earlier, they had an argument. He wanted to stop at a little fishing spot just outside of Regina. She wanted to keep going. “I’m tired, dad. I wouldn’t mind getting to the hotel.” He smiled and pulled over anyways. Something bitter in her fourteen year-old belly slid throatwards. She squashed it back down. Why was she always so selfish?

He stepped out, slid the front seat forward, and extracted his tackle-box from its habitual home in the back of the cab. He pulled out their fishing rods, closed the door, and made his way to the river. She followed slowly, sulking a little. She brought her book; she wouldn’t fish.

“Why bother catching them if you’re just going to throw them back in?” It had sounded so much better in her head. She was leaning against a boulder, her book open in her lap; he was standing downstream on the rocky shore, where he’d stood for the last twenty minutes. Cast, tug, reel. You have to make the bait look injured.

He doesn’t look at her or answer her question. “How’s your book?” he asks instead. Her eyes burn. She tries to get back into her story, but the words swim away from her like frightened fish. A cold wind bullies the few stunted trees that line the river.

Now they drive in silence. Occasionally he’ll switch on the radio, listen to CBC for a while, then switch it off again. They eat at a roadside diner. Dawn orders soup, as always. As always, her dad orders a club sandwich and iced tea. The waitress asks them where they’re headed. ‘Cuz nobody’s ever headed here, she jokes. Dawn and her dad laugh politely. The waitress smiles back, then walks away.

They’re on a trip together, just the two of them. Dawn isn’t sure why he wants her here. She wonders if he thinks about her much. She wants to ask, but every time she starts, she forgets why she wants to know.

Day Four

Fields of dead cornstalks line the memory. Gloomy sentinels whispering summer was murdered. Dawn turns away from them as the truck speeds west. Her eyes fix on her father’s hands instead. His grip on the steering wheel is light, but something about him always feels tightly coiled, like a jack-in-the-box. One more crank, a few more notes—and then what?

The northern Saskatchewan highway flops before them like discarded snakeskin. They’re driving to Dawson City; he wants them to see Canada together. They’ll stay at a motel tonight, then head for Alberta tomorrow. Her dad likes the back roads. They stop to fish a lot.

Earlier, they had an argument. He wanted to stop at a little fishing spot just outside of Regina. She wanted to keep going. “I’m tired, dad. I wouldn’t mind getting to the hotel.” He smiled and pulled over anyways. Something bitter in her fourteen year-old belly slid throatwards. She squashed it back down. Why was she always so selfish?

He stepped out, slid the front seat forward, and extracted his tackle-box from its habitual home in the back of the cab. He pulled out their fishing rods, closed the door, and made his way to the river. She followed slowly, sulking a little. She brought her book; she wouldn’t fish.

“Why bother catching them if you’re just going to throw them back in?” It had sounded so much better in her head. She was leaning against a boulder, her book open in her lap; he was standing downstream on the rocky shore, where he’d stood for the last twenty minutes. Cast, tug, reel. You have to make the bait look injured.

He doesn’t look at her or answer her question. “How’s your book?” he asks instead. Her eyes burn. She tries to get back into her story, but the words swim away from her like frightened fish. A cold wind bullies the few stunted trees that line the river.

Now they drive in silence. Occasionally he’ll switch on the radio, listen to CBC for a while, then switch it off again. They eat at a roadside diner. Dawn orders soup, as always. As always, her dad orders a club sandwich and iced tea. The waitress asks them where they’re headed. ‘Cuz nobody’s ever headed here, she jokes. Dawn and her dad laugh politely. The waitress smiles back, then walks away.

They’re on a trip together, just the two of them. Dawn isn’t sure why he wants her here. She wonders if he thinks about her much. She wants to ask, but every time she starts, she forgets why she wants to know.

Day Three

Fields of dead cornstalks line the memory. Gloomy sentinels whispering summer is murdered. Dawn turns away from them as the truck speeds west. Her eyes fix on her father’s hands instead. His grip on the steering wheel is light, but something about him always feels tightly coiled, like a jack-in-the-box. One more crank, a few more notes—and then what?

The northern Saskatchewan highway flops before them like discarded snakeskin. They’re driving to Dawson City; he wants them to see Canada together. They’ll stay at a motel tonight, then head for Alberta tomorrow. Her dad likes the back roads. They stop to fish a lot.

Earlier, they had an argument. He wanted to stop at a little fishing spot just outside of Regina. She wanted to keep going. “I’m tired, dad. I wouldn’t mind getting to the hotel.” He smiled and pulled over anyways. Something bitter in her fourteen year-old belly slid throatwards. She squashed it back down. Why was she always so selfish?

He stepped out, slid the front seat forward, and extracted his tackle-box from its habitual home in the back of the cab. He pulled out their fishing rods, closed the door, and made his way to the river. She followed slowly, sulking a little. She brought her book; she wouldn’t fish.

“Why bother catching them if you’re just going to throw them back in?” It had sounded so much better in her head. She was leaning against a boulder, her book open in her lap; he was standing downstream on the rocky shore, where he’d stood for the last twenty minutes. Cast, tug, reel. You have to make the bait look injured.

He doesn’t look at her or answer her question. “How’s your book?” he asks instead. Her eyes burn. She tries to get back into her story, but the words swim away from her like frightened fish. A cold wind bullies the few stunted trees that line the river.

Now they drive in silence. Occasionally he’ll switch on the radio, listen to CBC for a while, then switch it off again. They eat at a roadside diner. Dawn orders soup, as always. As always, her dad orders a club sandwich and iced tea. The waitress asks them where they’re headed. ‘Cuz nobody’s ever headed here, she jokes. Dawn and her dad laugh politely. The waitress smiles back, then walks away.

They’re on a trip together, just the two of them. Dawn isn’t sure why he wants her here. She wonders if he thinks about her much. She wants to ask, but every time she starts, she forgets why she wants to know.

Day Two

Fields of dead cornstalks line the memory. Gloomy sentinels whispering summer is over. Dawn turns away from them as the truck speeds west. Her eyes fix on her father’s hands instead. His grip on the steering wheel is light, but something about him always feels tightly coiled, like a jack-in-the-box. One more crank, a few more notes—and then what?

The northern Saskatchewan highway flops before them like discarded snakeskin. They’re driving to Dawson City; he wants them to see Canada together. They’ll stay at a motel tonight, then head for Alberta tomorrow. Her dad likes the back roads. They stop to fish a lot.

Earlier, they had an argument. He wanted to stop at a little fishing spot just outside of Regina. She wanted to keep going. “I’m tired, dad. I wouldn’t mind getting to the hotel.” He smiled and pulled over anyways. Something bitter in her fourteen year-old belly slid throatwards. She squashed it back down. Why was she always so selfish?

He stepped out, slid the front seat forward, and extracted his tackle-box from its habitual home in the back of the cab. He pulled out their fishing rods, closed the door, and made his way to the river. She followed slowly, sulking a little. She brought her book; she wouldn’t fish.

“Why bother catching them if you’re just going to throw them back in?” It had sounded so much better in her head. She was leaning against a boulder, her book open in her lap; he was standing downstream on the rocky shore, where he’d stood for the last twenty minutes. Cast, tug, reel. You have to make the bait look injured.

He doesn’t look at her or answer her question. “How’s your book?” he asks instead. Her eyes burn. She tries to get back into her story, but the words swim away from her like frightened fish. A cold wind bullies the few stunted trees that line the river.

Now they drive in silence. Occasionally he’ll switch on the radio, listen to CBC for a while, then switch it off again. They eat at a roadside diner. Dawn orders soup, as always. As always, her dad orders a club sandwich and iced tea. The waitress asks them where they’re headed. ‘Cuz nobody’s ever headed here, she jokes. Dawn and her dad laugh politely. The waitress smiles back, then walks away.

They’re on a trip together, just the two of them. Dawn isn’t sure why he wants her here. She wonders if he thinks about her much. She wants to ask, but every time she starts, she forgets why she wants to know.

Day One

Fields of dead cornstalks line the highway, gloomy sentinels whispering summer is over. Dawn turns away from them as the truck speeds west. Her eyes fix on her father’s hands instead. His grip on the steering wheel is light, but something about him always feels tightly coiled, like a jack-in-the-box. One more crank, a few more notes—and then what?

The northern Saskatchewan highway flops before them like discarded snakeskin. They’re driving to Dawson City; he wants them to see Canada together. They’ll stay at a motel tonight, then head for Alberta tomorrow. Her dad likes the back roads. They stop to fish a lot.

Earlier, they had an argument. He wanted to stop at a little fishing spot just outside of Regina. She wanted to keep going. “I’m tired, dad. I wouldn’t mind getting to the hotel.” He smiled and pulled over anyways. Something bitter in her fourteen year-old belly slid throatwards. She squashed it back down. Why was she always so selfish?

He stepped out, slid the front seat forward, and extracted his tackle-box from its habitual home in the back of the cab. He pulled out their fishing rods, closed the door, and made his way to the river. She followed slowly, sulking a little. She brought her book; she wouldn’t fish.

“Why bother catching them if you’re just going to throw them back in?” It had sounded so much better in her head. She was leaning against a boulder, her book open in her lap; he was standing downstream on the rocky shore, where he’d stood for the last twenty minutes. Cast, tug, reel. You have to make the bait look injured.

He doesn’t look at her or answer her question. “How’s your book?” he asks instead. Her eyes burn. She tries to get back into her story, but the words swim away from her like frightened fish. A cold wind bullies the few stunted trees that line the river.

Now they drive in silence. Occasionally he’ll switch on the radio, listen to CBC for a while, then switch it off again. They eat at a roadside diner. Dawn orders soup, as always. As always, her dad orders a club sandwich and iced tea. The waitress asks them where they’re headed. ‘Cuz nobody’s ever headed here, she jokes. Dawn and her dad laugh politely. The waitress smiles back, then walks away.

They’re on a trip together, just the two of them. Dawn isn’t sure why he wants her here. She wonders if he thinks about her much. She wants to ask, but every time she starts, she forgets why she wants to know.

But first...the rules

Every proper experiment has ground rules, no?

Here are mine:

1. Every word of the story must change.
2. Each word can only be changed once. If I make a change and it takes me in the wrong direction, I can't go back and fix it.
3. For the purposes of this experiment, when it comes to verbs, a 'word' includes both the main verb and the helping verb and/or other particles that give the verb meaning, tense, etc. For example, I can change 'had gone' to 'will run'--this counts as one word.
4. Punctuation...hmmm...what should I do about punctuation? I think the only way I'll have a fighting chance is to exclude punctuation from the one-a-day rule. This means that I can adjust punctuation along with any single word change. However, I can't edit a punctuation change once I've made it.
5. Changes will be indicated with bolded text.
6. I reserve the right to add new rules as challenges present themselves, but I won't contravene existing rules.
7. (Added Oct. 2) I may take the occasional weekend off...

The Idea

I write a story. It's 437 words long.

Every day, I change one word.

I can only change one word a day.
Every word must change.
Each word can only change once.

At some point in the 437 days, my original story will meet its doom. But at what point? And at what point is the new story really born?

This is an Experiment

Here's what I want to find out:

1. Can it be done? Can I transform one 437-word story into a new 437-word story, changing only one word, one day at a time?

2. Can I make the story stay coherent as it evolves?

3. How many stories do I actually end up with after 437 days? There's the original story and the final story, but are how many distinct stories will pop up in between?