I've seen quite a few of these types of debate going on before (if they can even be called as a debate). Just like to have one of my own.
Idea is to continue a story with your opponent (may as well be called partner). Most interesting continuations win.
Additional rules for further clarification:
1. My opponent will start the story in R1.
2. My opponent will not post any story-related content in R5 (R5 is a waster type of round)
3. I will conclude the story in my part in R5 of this "debate".
To keep it simple, just follow this setting
First round acceptance of rules and the commencement of the story.
My Last Day on Earth. (A short story)
I’m old. I’m getting older – there’s no denying that. And while I’m perfectly capable of getting older, that’s not the way I want to get out. I mean, just look at me. I’m shot full of steroids and drugs to reduce the arthritis in my joints. My seeing foggy from my cataracts. Puffed up plastic packages of Doggy Depends hidden away under the pantry… I’m sure John – my owner, bless him – would get me one of those damned wagons I’ve seen on the street – you know the ones I mean, that keep your… what’s it called… ones that keep your hind cradled so you can drag it about around the street. That’s just degrading. Humiliating. Guantanamo would use these things as torture devices.
He’d do it out of love of course, no denying that. Danny, bless his soul, wouldn’t want to see me dead. Wait… is it Dan? No, no, it’s Mark. Mark, bless him, how did I forget? Loves me like nothing else. Couldn’t bear to see me go, shooting me full of drugs. He does it out love, though. He couldn’t see me go: he’d keep me in a jar, eyeballs drifting about, free as anything, with feeding tubes for my brains. But I don’t want to be kept alive, no way. I know what happens next.
You see, I saw what happened. On TV, surprisingly. Flicking through one day, years ago, I saw a documentary on Mongolian culture and religion of all things. It was one of the best things I ever saw on TV – other than the 1988 Olympic tennis match between and Moyette, where his sedate playing style proved him an artist of the game. After the 1988 Olympics tennis match final, the best thing I’ve ever seen on TV was the documentary that explained it all to me, making it all clear, showing me the truth: when a dog is finished living his life as a dog, they’ll be reincarnated. They’ll be reincarnated as a man.
You know, I’ve always felt quite human. There’s something within me that makes me quite different from other dogs, I always thought. Sure, maybe I look like a dog, but when did that matter? It’s what’s on the inside that counts. It’s the soul. And my soul is very human.
I’m ready to be a man now, though I realise I’ll lose all that I have been. All of my memories, all of my experience, all of my knowledge, all of that which makes me me – whish. Gone in an instant. I’d like to take them with me in the next life. All of what I learnt when the house was on fire, when I drew mud on the floor… but I have little say in the matter. After all, how could I force myself to remember? I can’t imprint anything on my soul, something without surface, without sides, without pages, not a form of any kind. I can’t carry it and grab it and choke it down into the recess of my mind so when I open my eyes and feel my fingers and thumbs I’ll already know. I will already see. All I’ve got to do is wait. Wait for the end, the great void, the last hurrah, the—
The bell next to the door starts ringing. The door is open, and my master, Frank, has come home.
Drama_addict forfeited this round.
Well: that's a good response to the story, and has helped propogate the story.
Drama_addict forfeited this round.
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