Googlitrature

[nycwriters]

Ok here's a fun exercise. Google something -- be it you, a friend, a movie star, a shetland pony, or a pet rock. Take the very first entry listed, read through it, and write a short passage on what you see. Set it up like this: Write the searched keyword(s), then link the entry you found, and then your passage.

[trisherina]

Okay. Well, I Googled "rat." Here's the first Web entry.

Rattus rattus, rattus rattus,
Carry plague, so don't upset us.
Laughing, chirping, we make great pets
If not, we make lively targets.

I don't know if I'd call it literature!

[nycwriters]

I picked celebration (ha, not what i expected from good ol' google). Here's the link.

Muriel didn't expect to bump into Anges at the corner store. Sure the town was small, but still, she'd hoped she'd avoid such a confrontation.

"Oh hi," sniffed Agnes, upon seeing Muriel.

"Hi," said Muriel meekly.

It seems only two weeks earlier at the Market Street celebration (in Celebration), she'd been "caught" shopping with Fred. Agnes wasn't pleased. But at the time it didn't matter much to Muriel and they went along the old-fashioned boulevard to continue shopping. Muriel had sort of waved, Agnes had grimaced. Later, as she and Fred settled in to one of the town's old-fashioned wooden rockers and people watched, she forgot about her accidental meeting with Agnes.

Now, however, was an entirely different matter. Muriel frowned.

[trisherina]

I Googled "forget".

Dara-Anne couldn't wait to finish her chat with Lauren. All Lauren wanted to do was speculate about her chances with Nathan, who had asked her if she wanted an extra Coke that came out of the machine for him as she was walking by. Lauren couldn't stop talking about the Coke and how it wasn't diet and did that mean Nathan thought she wasn't into fitness and health, or did it just mean he didn't see her as petty and superficial? Dara-Anne really didn't care, but she was polite about if for as long as she could stand it. Then she told Lauren she had homework to do, set her status to "Busy" and checked out Forget magazine, where she was supposed to have a poem published that week. And there it was, though she would not have chosen those colours or that photo backdrop, there it was. Suddenly she could hardly contain herself, and paged Lauren back.

[Hyakujo's Fox]

I googled 'bed time'

Once upon a time there was a very little businesschild called Peter. Peter liked to do little chores for his mother around the house, and if he did the very best job he could possibly do his mother would give Peter a bright shiny penny and kiss on the cheek. Peter put each bright shiny penny in a stocking he kept under his pillow. Eventually Peter got so many shiny pennies he had enough startup capital for his web venture. Soon Peter spent all day and all night working on his website. He didn't like to do chores for his mother anymore. Soon Peter's website was ready and he decided to call it motherslittlehelper.com. Peter figured he would soon capture up to 30% of the national chore market. The actual chores would be done by Peter's little brothers and sisters for only half a penny. But Peter soon found that no-one would visit his website, as all the other mothers liked to get their own children to do the chores. Peter was very sad and eventually all that was left of motherslittlehelper.com was a 404 message. Peter's mother noticed how sad Peter was and decided to cheer him up. 'Oh look Peter, my kitchen floor could really use a good sweeping. I wonder who could help me clean my floor?" his mother cried. Peter was already sweeping around her feet. That night Peter slept so happily and dreamt the happiest dreams a boy ever could. And in the stocking under his pillow was - a bright shiny penny.

[Brynn]

cumbersome

The boy toiled barefoot along a dusty road dragging a loaded red wagon. He should have listened and put some shoes on before he left, and now he had to deal with rocks.
Promised a popsicle when he got back, he had been forced by his mother to go to the post office to mail a huge box of record albums bound for Australia. He had never heard of Frank Sinatra and never wanted to hear of him again. In fact, he hated Frank Sinatra now, and hated his mother's pack-rat tendencies. At least he wouldn't have to ever listen to him now. The album covers looked corny, and Frank had weird, oily hair. The song titles sounded corny too. That's why the lady's a tramp, he thought in irritation. She hangs out with a guy who doesn't wash his hair.

The records had been sitting for years in their cluttered dining room, loosely packed in a heavy wooden shipping crate that his mother wouldn't get rid of either. The crate was all beat up, with old nails sticking out of it. It also had something about "artillery" in tiny letters stencilled on a yellowed, torn label on the side of it. "1943." The family dog had regularly lifted his leg against it scores of times, and the boy could smell the whole thing reeking through all the cardboard and packing tape, even from the length of the wagon handle. He wondered if the post office would even take it, it was so bad.
He decided to think about lime popsicles, of sunburns and cold lawn sprinklers, and the very real possiblity of leaving the box in a ditch just off the side of the road.