In one of the several variations of the game Story Cubes, you pick a title, then roll the cubes—nine of them—and create a story that works with the title.
You must use all the nine images in your story.
So now it's demonstration time. I'm going to roll the cubes for you, then see whether I can create a story titled "My Worst New Year's Eve Ever."
Here we go—rattle, rattle, rattle—annnnnd here come the cubes. Face up as they stop we have the world, a star, a cellphone, a lightbulb, a barefoot footprint, a fish, a turtle, a bridge over a stream, and a rainbow.
Ooo, this is one tough set of writing joggers, but let's give it a try.
* * *
My Worst New Year's Eve Ever . . . Really, Ever
I mashed 9-1-1 into my phone.
"Rock County Com Center," came back a world-weary voice, "what's your emergency?"
I looked up at a green light hovering on the horizon. A star? The place had the stench of burnt eggs. "I think I need the police."
"Where's here?" the communications tech asked. "My screen shows you're on a cellphone."
"Oh, yeah, the bridge over Turtle Creek . . . down by Shopiere."
"Gotcha. I can have a sheriff's car there in three minutes. What's your emergency?"
"This is gonna sound strange."
"Buddy, tonight it's one strange world. I've had three calls in the last hour about aliens snatching people at a biker bar."
"Really?"
"Would I make this up? There's a full moon somewhere. It's the only explanation."
"What I've got could be serious."
"All right, lay it on me, man."
"I, ah, I found a set of barefoot footprints in the snow—seven toes on one foot, nine on the other, I swear—going up on the bridge and a pile of clothes like none I've ever seen before. I think maybe someone jumped."
I peered over the railing at a dead fish floating on the water . . . and a shadow. What the h-e-double toothpicks?
Something smacked me in the back of the head, setting off a burst of colors as I went down, a rainbow of colors, but before the lightbulb in my brain went fzzzt, I heard a high-pitched voice saying, "He measures sixteen-point-five-four kumquitz precisely. Our other specimens are larger—much larger. Shall I throw him back?"
© Jerry Peterson.
