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Thanks to all who sweated in our booth to participate in the Exquisite Corpse!  We deeply apologize, but one page of writing was carried away by the wind.  We hope that you enjoy what we were able to stop nature from stealing!

If you are amused by what you read below, then you might want to consider taking a gourmet writing class at Writing Pad.  All classes are infused with yummy food and a fun, improvisational spirit to feed your imagination and keep your pen moving!  Also, if you join our email list, we will supply you with writing prompts for free every month.

For those of you who were asking, the name, “Exquisite Corpse” is derived from a phrase that resulted when Surrealists first played the game in 1925, "Le cadavre exquis boira le vin nouveau."  ("The exquisite corpse will drink the new wine.")  Very interesting. . .

The wine worked its way into the corners of my brain . . .

until I felt like a fluffy kitten on steroids.

This is probably the right time to sign up for that paid psych experiment, I thought and staggered to the futon.

As I sat on the futon, eating bon-bons and sipping champagne, I chose to skip my psychiatric treatment session.  The bon-bons helped ease my psychosis.

Then I glanced at the ceiling and saw a large, grotesque figure darting away from my gaze.  My eyes widened in astonishment.

Could this really have been the sign I was looking for?

There is no religion higher than truth.

Truth is a chocolate laid out in the sun.  Its level of veracity can only be held evident when held to the light.  Does it melt or does it turn white with the age of open air?

Like so many truths one must ingest and digest to truly know it.

Or we can completely reject all we’ve heard within the lies of our Western upbringing.

He told her that he didn’t want to see her again until she stopped.

Spending her paycheck on her compulsive Hallmark card collection, her obsession for anecdotes was tearing them apart.

Gone were the simple high fives and hand up the skirt.

I was the exquisite corpse under the black table.

I am so sorry, but when I felt something crunch under my shoe, it was your finger.  I’m a klutz.  I wish I had not lost all sense of balance during my boating accident.

I wish you hadn’t either.

The wine worked its way into the corners of my brain. . .

and found an enormous, vacant space!

Those who find vacant space are vacant people.

It’s so hot right now, my brain feels like a vacant lot.

My brain is blank, I can’t do this today.

Thought the dehydrated writer as the sun smeared red splotches on her forehead.  She’d felt blocked like this many times before.

But she knew that sleep would wipe the chalky blackboard of her brain clean.  Tomorrow, after swallowing 2 Extra Strength Tylenols and a cup of icy water, she would pick up the pen and try again.

 

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