The story below is a work of collaborative fiction started May 27, 2007. Feel free to contribute to the story. You may use the talk page to discuss issues of character and plot development (among other things).
If you would like to contribute to another work of collaborative fiction, please see wikifiction 2.
 Grass: A biography
The grassy blades ruffled against his grass-like cheek, as Chris lay still in the wild grassy grass as the train passed him and the grass by ... he then smoked some grass. He could feel his brain tingling as the devil weed began to influence his thought. It urged him to unspeakable things; it urged him to kill. Then he mowed the grass and thought to himself, "Oh, how wet the morning dew is! How I do love the grass! How it is the one pleasantry in a world of unpleasantries and how the appreciation of grass has been diminished to that of an aesthetic."
"Oh me, oh my, let thy freshly clipped nails fondle me," he said to the grass and promptly dropped his trousers. At that point a dirt devotee came by and laughed at him, all covered in semen, dew, and freshly cut grass.
"Dost thou see what your heaven has bestowed upon you? Hah!" she said, then let out several more stilted laughs, spaced at intervals of forty-three and a half seconds. She then picked up her broom and flew away into the sunset, while the elements frowned.
Chris looked at his tattooed wrists, crosses under the palms. Under the influence five years earlier, he thought, twenty years. The grass still wrestled in the soft wind. The hair on his wrists fickered over the ink. The ink.
Grabbing a handful of pink cotton shirt right above his breast, he ripped outwards, the strong tear drowning out the rustle for a second, at least.
The butcher, a handsome man married to a woman of considerable girth, smiled at the sight of the grass wrestling the wind, for he was a long time fan of the Grass vs. Wind matches on ESPN7 and had yet to see one in his day to day wanderings. Of course, he had animals to slaughter and to hang and to salt and all this meandering about would not put the food that his wife so desperately needed on the table. "Damn her girth!" he shouted to the wind, as he continued on his way to work. The wind shouted back, "Damn your insolence!" and he was thrown many yards, in the direction of Orff Creek.
"O Fortuna, what providence you have bestowed upon me to direct me towards Orff Creek! Surely this is against the wind's every impulse and desire, but you have entered into the battle!"
But Fortuna had other plans, for he was only thrown twenty yards, which landed him into the backyard of some neighborhood children. They were dressed in black and had brooms and witches hats and spoke of magic and gatherings and of writing. Of writing. They stopped and looked at the man.
This butcher. His hands running red with the recent blood of a fetal pig, a delicacy and present requested by the mayor for his new bride, half the mayor's age. But the blood dripped down the butcher's arms as he ran his fingers through his greasy gray hair. The children did not break their gaze. The youngest grabbed a handful of her dark hair with her right hand and gnawed on a short twig she held with her left.
"Why would you want to remember this?" The kids just kept staring. Some blood dripped off his elbow. He was beginning to feel naked. They were going to remember this. They are making sure they never forget this. "But it means nothing," he said to the group, unmoved. Studying. "Can't you see? You cannot derive anything from coincidence. Happenstance. Pure fucking nothing. Nada." The fat kid shifted his weight to his other leg. The one with glasses leaned harder on his knotwood staff. This butcher stared into his thick rims. "Isn't knowing now enough? Memory will haunt you enough." Nothing.
"You little fucker. You don't understand shit." Lunging at the boy, the butcher brought his backhand firm and loud under the boy's glasses, pig's blood splattering on impact. "You don't write about this. Ever, you hear?"