An exquisite corpse is a collaborative work of art in which different members each contiribute a section. There are several different ways of producing an exquisite corpse. In one method, each person writes a certain section on a piece of paper and folds over their section so that the next person can’t see what came before when they write their section. Similarly, artists might fold a paper into thirds, with one person drawing the head, another the torso, and the third the legs. They may or may not be allowed to see what came before. In other variations, the members are allowed to see what was previously created.

For this Twitter Exquisite Corpse, each member contributed a short—less than 140 characters—piece of prose to a story using twitter.

The Participants (Twitter Names):


The Story (Color Coded):

The floor was covered in splinters and shards of glass from the broken window. Campbell was passed out on the front porch after

her ill-advised transfenestral adventure. The stupid cat sniffed Campbell; satisfied that she was not dead, it leapt back through

whatever layers of meaning had born this reality. As always, the path back seemed faster but was filled with pithy pity-potholes.

Campbell slowly peeled herself off the floor, careful not to give herself any more cuts than she already had from the previous

revelry. She tenderly negotiated her balance, still intoxicated from the bouquet of her burgundy veneer. Suspicious of her cat’s

. She took a gun and shot the cat. She was allergic to them anyway. Then it occurred to her that it was time to go to work.

She put the cat’s body into a trash bag, then put the bag in the freezer. Taking the gun with her, she drove to the hospital.

Campbell dreaded the double shift she was facing—a horde of mewling sick people, mewling like cats, feeding her felicidal fever.

Certain the gun would go unnoticed in her Hello Kitty (TM) bag, she tucked it under her arm and headed to the forensic psych unit.

There Campbell was met by a strange looking lady who was wailing on about being attacked by a cat last night. Settling in

coaxed Campbell out from her nightly fugue and hushed her staccato thoughts. The patient’s tale triggered what she really had shot.

A boat! That’s the key. And a small black bird perched lightly on the prow. Leaving cats behind entirely, she slipped in….

to the waiting room. “Ms. Campbell! How did you get out of your room?” the nurse asked. The nurse gently took her by the shoulders.

This is all wrong, she thought. I’m a doctor not a patient. The nurse’s grip on her shoulders was gently irresistible. Hazily,she

recited the year, the day of the week, where she was and the name of the president of the United States. But no one could verify

that she was hungry. What was going on? Why do the limes keep jumping into the coconuts? MMMMmm….coconuts.

The nurse’s familiar eyes were coconuts? Why did he call her Ms.? Her brother knows she’s a doctor. More coconuts? Still hungry for

answers, she looked at her chart. A few phrases jumped out: “disociative fugue” and “trauma following boating accident.” She lay on

on the cold tile floor, comforted by its solidity. Hello Kitty, The gun, the cat—she doubted them all, but not this cold floor.

She rolled over to grab the gun from her bag. She randomly played with angles, trying to find the most comfortable one to

position the barrel to optimize the ricochet and cranium fragmentation. She wondered if her target would be able to hear the shot

Suddenly, he fell. Silence after the echo faded and only a small puff of dust rose where she had last seen him.

The orderlies came running. She tried to bolt through the door when they opened it, but they forced her back inside. Sedating her

would have been the thing to do, but the staff saw her painted in blood and gore and thought it hers, and fled to find a doctor.

Ears ringing and stunned, she realized they hadn’t taken the gun. Hadn’t even noticed it, the fools, in their silly white Crocs

Campbell jumped up off the floor and tried bolting out the door, only to find it locked. Damn nurses remembered to bolt it.

She collected her things and gathered her thoughts. When the door opened again she was ready and they were not. Using all of her

With the last scrum of light and clouds colliding in the horizon, she turned away and headed north west.

3 thoughts on “Twitter Exquisite Corpse 2010

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