Dead Story Walking

Day Thirty

2009-08-11T13:42:00.001-04:00

Fields of dead cornstalks line the memory. Gloomy sentinels whispering mother was murdered. She screams; strangers hew them as the truck speeds west. Her eyes fix on their leader. Hands, blood. 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 naked, lonely highway forgotten behind them like discarded snakeskin. They’re running to Hope City; he wants them escaping from 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. So tired, sad. “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. She pulled out the spear, rods, closed the door, and made her way to the river. She followed slowly, plotting carefully. 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, a spearhead cradled 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 Twenty-Nine

2009-08-07T10:42:00.000-04:00

Fields of dead cornstalks line the memory. Gloomy sentinels whispering mother was murdered. She screams; strangers hew them as the truck speeds west. Her eyes fix on their leader. Hands, blood. 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 naked, lonely highway forgotten behind them like discarded snakeskin. They’re running to Hope City; he wants them escaping from 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. So tired, sad. “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. She pulled out the spear, rods, closed the door, and made her way to the river. She followed slowly, plotting 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, a spearhead cradled 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 Twenty-Eight

2009-08-06T14:28:00.000-04:00

Fields of dead cornstalks line the memory. Gloomy sentinels whispering mother was murdered. She screams; strangers hew them as the truck speeds west. Her eyes fix on their leader. Hands, blood. 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 naked, lonely highway forgotten behind them like discarded snakeskin. They’re running to Hope City; he wants them escaping from 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. So tired, sad. “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. She pulled out the spear, rods, closed the door, and made her 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, a spearhead cradled 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 Twenty-Seven

2008-11-07T11:33:00.002-05:00

2007-03-13T15:36:00.000-04:00

Day Twenty-Six

2006-11-28T19:40:00.000-05:00

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 the spear, 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.

Day Twenty-Five

2006-11-27T17:42:00.000-05:00

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 the 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.

Day Twenty-Four

2006-11-24T16:46:00.000-05:00

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.

Day Twenty-Three

2006-11-08T15:21:00.000-05:00

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, sad. 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?

Day Twenty-Two

2006-11-07T14:16:00.000-05:00

Fields of dead cornstalks line the memory. Gloomy sentinels whispering mother was murdered. She screams; strangers hew them as the truck speeds west. Her eyes fix on their leader. Hands, blood. 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?

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?

Day Twenty-One*

2006-11-03T11:33:00.000-05:00

*Note: This one is admittedly problematic. Weirdness noted.

Fields of dead cornstalks line the memory. Gloomy sentinels whispering mother was murdered. She screams; strangers from them as the truck speeds west. Her eyes fix on their leader. Hands, blood. 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?

Day Twenty

2006-11-02T15:52:00.000-05:00

Fields of dead cornstalks line the memory. Gloomy sentinels whispering mother was murdered. She screams away from them as the truck speeds west. Her eyes fix on their leader. Hands, blood. 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?

Day Nineteen

2006-11-02T08:03:00.000-05:00

Fields of dead cornstalks line the memory. Gloomy sentinels whispering mother was murdered. She turns away from them as the truck speeds west. Her eyes fix on their leader. Hands, blood. 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?

Day Eighteen

2006-10-31T08:55:00.000-05:00

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 their leader. Hands, blood. 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?

Day Seventeen

2006-10-26T22:56:00.000-04:00

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 leader. Hands, blood. 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?

Day Sixteen

2006-10-26T22:54:00.000-04:00

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 leader. 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?

Day Fifteen

2006-10-24T11:34:00.000-04:00

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?

“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, a spearhead cradled 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.

Day Fourteen

2006-10-20T14:25:00.000-04:00

“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, a book cradled 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.

Day Thirteen

2006-10-18T22:25:00.000-04:00

“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, a 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.

Day Twelve

2006-10-13T10:48:00.000-04:00

The naked, lonely highway forgotten behind them like discarded snakeskin. They’re running to Hope City; he wants them escaping from 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.

“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.

Day Eleven

2006-10-12T04:58:00.000-04:00

The naked, lonely highway forgotten behind them like discarded snakeskin. They’re running to Hope 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.

Day Ten

2006-10-10T15:01:00.000-04:00

The naked, lonely highway forgotten behind them like discarded snakeskin. They’re running 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.

Day Nine

2006-10-07T16:55:00.000-04:00

The northern, lonely highway forgotten behind them like discarded snakeskin. They’re running 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.

Day Eight

2006-10-05T14:30:00.000-04:00

The northern, lonely highway forgotten behind 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.

Day Seven

2006-10-03T00:10:00.000-04:00

The northern, lonely highway forgotten 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.

Your Comments Here

2006-10-02T08:40:00.000-04:00

I'll leave this open as the comments post, in case you're stopping by and want to say hello.

Day Six

2006-10-02T08:38:00.000-04:00

The northern Saskatchewan highway forgotten 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.

Day Five

2006-09-29T17:43:00.000-04:00

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.

Day Four

2006-09-28T17:19:00.000-04:00

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?

Day Three

2006-09-27T17:37:00.000-04:00

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?

Day Two

2006-09-26T20:22:00.000-04:00

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?

Day One

2006-09-25T18:41:00.000-04:00

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?

But first...the rules

2006-09-24T16:44:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-24T14:33:00.000-04:00

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?