TOP FI/RE WRITERS COLLABORATE TO CREATE SURREALIST PROSE

As a lifelong reader and writer, I have always been fascinated by a word & drawing game invented in the 1800s by the French Surrealists, called “The Exquisite Corpse,” since I first heard of it in my late teens. For those who may be unfamiliar, our pals over at Wikipedia offer a concise definition:

“Exquisite corpse (from the original French term cadavre exquis), is a method by which a collection of words or images is collectively assembled. Each collaborator adds to a composition in sequence by being allowed to see only the end of what the previous person contributed.”

Over the years, I’ve always wanted to try this, particularly with music, but, in that medium, it seemed to be a bit unwieldy. Moreover, up until I started Fates On Fire, I’ve never had a cadre of writer friends with whom I could collaborate. So, it was somewhere near the beginning of Fall, I put word out to some of the top personal finance writers to see if they might be interested in participating in an exquisite corpse project and scare up a little ‘Halloween/Fall’ fun by creating some Surrealist prose.

I was initially curious to see who from the personal finance community would respond and, as it happens, many of the best expressed interest and committed to participate, including: Freddy Smidlap, Full Time Finance, Happily Disengaged, Impersonal Finances, Ineedably, My Quiet FI, & Rose Colored Water.

With a host of co-authors like that, I was completely stoked for our little experiment that officially started on October 1st.

THE PROCESS

Fundamentally, the process of the project itself was fairly straightforward. Once I had finalized the list of co-authors, the only general guidance provided was that the story was very loosely themed on Halloween or the Fall season. To kick the project off, I composed an opening paragraph and then sent only the last sentence to the next randomly chosen contributor.

I asked them to use that sentence as a stimulus to write anywhere from 1 to 3 paragraphs and then send back to me. I then took the last sentence from that contribution and did the same with the next randomly selected participant. And so on and so forth until each co-author had submitted their writing. As I did at the start, I ended by composing the final paragraphs of the story. Outside of changing one entry from 1st person to 3rd person narrative for consistency, there were no other edits.

We hope you enjoy reading the story!

I know not whether,

You came to me or I to you.

Nor whether it was

Reality or a dream,

Asleep or awake.

– Neil Gaiman

THE RESULT: LE CORPSE EXQUISITE

“I don’t understand. How can this be?” she thought while the floor had become a shallow pool of ink and the walls became diaphanous, only to reveal a bizarre frame seemingly constructed of nothing other than honey and bone.

He watched her from the other side. Midnight black hair framed a heart shaped countenance, pale as milk, with haunting eyes that bore into you, deep and dark as mine shaft caverns. She was the one. The only one.

A jack-o-lantern smile contorted his once handsome face, spittle dripped from his lips, rich and thick like the blood from some mountaintop sacrificial offering. Then he plunged the knife through the translucent honeyed wall into her stomach.

She looked up in a moment’s shock, recognized him form her nightmares, then screamed. It was a scream that took on a life of its own. A scream that grew dragon’s wings and erupted from her lungs with the desperation of a dying animal strangled by the fatal realization that this tragic life was no more than the dust of dreams spinning in a reaper’s gale.

The ocean wind is what woke him. The sound of the surf beating against the rocks and the sea’s wind menacing the three-hundred-year-old manor. When he lifted his head he realized that the sun had made its way over the edge of the world and a deep night was upon him. A full moon looked down onto the earth. Despite the cool ocean air, he was saturated in sweat from the nightmare that he was only just piecing together. What was that again? A dragon? He rubbed his eyes, thankful to be rid of that image, and got out of bed. It was supposed to have been a quick nap to shake off the brandy. Instead, it had turned into an all-day slumber and another good day lost.

Aided by the light of the full moon he clumsily lit the candle beside his bed. The room lit up in swaying shadows that highlighted the woodwork of the 18th century home as a flame caught and sizzled the wax. Not much of the original interior had been touched by the previous owners as it had been sporadically lived in and abandoned through wars and dictatorship, and then more wars, before ending up in his possession. Not much work meant no running water and no electricity. The plumbing renovation will take priority, he thought, as headed out and down the grand staircase to use the dilapidated outhouse at the corner of the property. As he took hold of the railing a shadow crossed his line of sight. It took a moment for him to take it in. Did he really just see that? The feeling he was being watched followed. He turned and held out the flimsy candle like a weapon, as if the meager candle would do away with the ill feeling that began to grow inside him. Nothing there. 

Electricity is just as important as plumbing, he concluded, continuing his descent down the creaking staircase with a quickened step. The shadow again and the feeling that someone was possibly following him through the shadows of his own house was so disturbing that he pretended it wasn’t happening. A few more steps and he would be off the bloody staircase and outside. Outside and away from the shadows. Then he heard it. A low guttural growl. He felt it in his chest more than he heard it. A draft of wind snipped life from his candle at the same moment he heard the throaty wet growl. In an instant the house became cloaked in inky darkness. The shadows of the house became deep gaping holes in the world. His eyes adjusted to this new world. The full moon let in enough light that he saw the creature’s eyes. Wet glistening orbs watching from the shadows. He focused on the eyes, squinting, hoping it was a trick of the light and he would soon see something else. But as his eyes started to adjust to solely the light of the full moon, there could be no mistaking the fur and menacing teeth of this creature and its intent.

As the foul beast crept ever so close, he felt as though he could still see the woman he fell for behind its eyes. He never expected their date to go this way, but maybe he should have recognized something was amiss when she ordered her steak extremely rare. He had thought her ravenous appetite was simply from excitement at eating at the most expensive restaurant in town. He couldn’t have been more wrong.

None of that mattered now, for he had only a moment to decide his next move. Behind him, a river raged. He could try to fight the beast, but that likely wouldn’t end in his favor. His only other option was to run into a deep, dark forest that was rumored to be haunted. He never believed in ghosts or ghouls, but that was before he watched his girlfriend transform into this creature.

His mind raced. The beast was so close he could smell its breath. It was time to make a decision. He turned and hurled himself into the river below.

It was nasty and dirty water and sure not not the least bit refreshing, but at least he avoided the injury of landing on anything solid. Nothing prepared our hero for the putrid smell now surrounding him. In the past he wondered why so many of the fish were dying near here. It was hard to tell if the pollution smell or the dead fish smell was more responsible for the nauseating smell. you know what, though? He got used to the odor quickly enough and began to refocus on how he would get out of this jam.

He must have floated for 30 minutes or more until he was sure his pursuer was well out of sight. His pack of cigarettes was ruined but his old reliable Zippo ought to dry out quickly enough to make a fire. At least it was not winter yet. He spotted a secluded area on the river bank and hauled his ass up and out of the water.

The area was rocky enough and not too muddy. He rinsed off his shoes and clothes and gathered some dead branches in preparation for a night of rest. It would not be a restful sleep. After all, who could rest comfortably in damp clothes while knowing the pursuers were not going to give up easily?

He needed to come up with a plan, and realized he had one small advantage. He, at least, knew that he was being followed. He couldn’t remember why exactly, or by whom—in a rush of adrenaline and clumsiness, he had tripped and hit his head on the pavement—but was driven by fear and a will to survive this ordeal. Conversely, his pursuers were concerned only with the hunt, not to being hunted themselves. He decided to flip the script and go on the offensive. By circling around the complex at nightfall, he could sneak up on what he now assumed to be a small army of the undead, eager to add to their ranks.

In the crisp Autumn evening, he made his way back past the creepy old Winslow house—where a gruesome tragedy once shook the entire town—and through the pet cemetery that led into the nearby woods. There, he saw a trio of shadowy figures making camp. Were these the foes he was up against? Or was it simply those sweet, innocent Winslow children—adults now—enjoying some peace in their backyard after all those horrible years? He couldn’t take that chance.

He approached with caution, stepping on branches and leaves along the way to disguise myself as any old nocturnal creature on the prowl. The night noises didn’t fool the shadowy figures. The largest of the three jumped up at once. Suddenly, he found himself face-to-face with his would-be assassin. He built up the courage to attack this beast but, before he could strike, a loud noise from the house caught us both by surprise.

A monstrous concussive peal of buttock wobbling flatulent thunder echoed off the surrounding landscape. Followed by a wave of malodorous wind that blew back their hair and made his eyes water. His eyes met those of the beast, who quivered briefly, then turned tail and ran. Never to be seen again.

His eyes turned to the ramshackle house. Windows cracked. Doors sagging on their hinges. Everything hastily patched on the cheap with duct tape. From inside, faint cooking smells wafted out of the kitchen, failing to mask the scent of slightly rancid meat and rotting vegetables. There could be only one possible conclusion.

This was a house where door-to-door salespeople and charity collectors fear to tread. Occupied by an impressionable soul who spends too much time on the internet, flitting between designer lifestyle fads. DIY-dabbler. Minimalist. Stoic. Survivalist. Urban forager.

That soul’s latest fad was FIRE, Financial Independence Retire Early. A life of attempting to save money in pursuit of leaving the rat race behind. If only it would last more than a week before moving on to the next bright shiny object.

So, like any impressionable lad, he immediately cut out all expenses. The diet he kept was now one of ramen noodles. People refused to come visit the house since he kept it at a balmy 55 degrees all winter.

He signed up for 30 side hustles to work 23 hours a day. They say getting up early leads to success, well then never going to sleep must be the key to success he reasoned. After 2 weeks of doing so both he and his house were transformed into a wretched horror the likes of which the world shunned.

Exhausted, famished and ever so weary after 2 weeks of tribulation that brought him to the very edge of sanity, he collapsed upon the front-room floor where sleep rapidly enveloped him. It was as if he’d been submerged in the depths of a pool of dark ink. And shortly thereafter came the mesmeric, horrifying dreams.

Dreams of lost loves. Dreams of honey and bone.

THOUGHTS & REFLECTIONS

Needless to say, I was thrilled with the results. The entire project was infinitely more exciting and gratifying than I originally imagined. The overall quality of the prose is very high which, of course, is not at all surprising since seasoned writers authored the story (even if creative fiction may be outside of their primary bailiwick).

What I found most astounding is the overall smoothness and consistency of the narrative. Given that each author was only provided with a very general thematic guideline and just 1 sentence from which to work from, the story flows exceedingly well. I was certain that there would be a number of “zigs and zags,” or sharply disjointed transitions, but it all holds together quite nicely and, as mentioned, required no editing.

It was tremendously fun and rewarding to have been able to collaborate with a number of great personal finance writers who I deeply respect and admire to do something a bit more creatively left-of-center and experimental. I’m already excited for next year!

Also, if you’re not familiar with these exceptional ‘FIRE’ writers, do yourself a favor and visit their websites and immerse yourself in some amazing personal finance-related articles. Without question, some of the best out there.

ET TU?

We hope you enjoyed the story and, as always, would love to hear your comments. Ever participated in a similar experimentally creative endeavor? Also, if you might be interested in participating next year, let me know by sending an email at contact@fatesonfire.com.