Apogee (by InsaneDane)

Despite (or possibly to spite) your intuition you remain put, lying on the moist floor of the cavern watching the darkness creep down the wall. As it approaches you ponder the decisions that lead you to this point in your life.

Why am I here? The tree swallowed me. Why did the tree swallow me? Because I crawled into it. Why did I crawl into it? Because I was trying to escape the trolls. Trolls? Short. Ugly. Grey Skin. Fiery tufts of hair. Face that looks like a cross between an orangutan and an iguana. I'm pretty sure I owned a few of those a decade or two ago. What are trolls doing in the woods? Where else would trolls be? In a cave.

Like a nesting doll with a magnet in the base you snap upright. As you listen to the droning of the hunters echoing down from above you, the incessant "kayak-a" starts sounding more and more like "Gallaga" but as you can think of no immediate reason why a bunch of trolls would be interested in a Filipino filmmaker you attribute the loss of the hard-K to the soft dirt walls.

Galllaca. Gallaca. Gallaca.

Forty-seven seconds.

The moisture in the floor of the cavern has started to seep through the seat of your pants so you stand and wipe off a slough of mud. Taking a look around the cavern you re-assess your situation. Above you, 217 feet of earthen wall end in the approaching cloud of darkness. Make that 213 feet. Below you, thousands of feet of air before you'd even hit the clouds. Resolute in your decision you sit back down and await the end. Why not? You've lived a good life.

Right?

As the cloud approaches, you start to review the formative moments in your life. Your earliest memory. You were exploring the dimly-lit garage of the house where you lived until you were 4. You found a bucket beneath one of the darkened shelves. Peering into the bucket you saw a mirror. Struck with an intense curiosity as to why there would be a mirror in the bucket, you reach out to touch it. You cover your hand in oil. Your first kiss. A game of spin-the-phone in a crowded restaurant. Your first non-artificially-motivated kiss. She missed and hit your nose. Your first near-death experience. Swimming unattended and getting caught in the undertow of a small dam.

Thirty-two seconds.

Thinking about the dam was a bad decision. The breathlessness returns to you as you glance up to see the remaining 160 feet of wall. What had once seemed like the slow decline of a sunset now seems like the relentless onslaught of a trash compactor. Where before the approach of the cloud had been an abstract concept, defined more by the change in the cloud's position over time rather than the cloud's velocity. Glancing upwards now, you can't help but stare at the approaching Gallaca. One-thousand one. Another 5 feet.

Twenty-seven seconds.

You notice a dull pounding in your ears that is almost in time with the trolls' drone. You examine your wrist, feel nothing. You never could find that vein. The jugular. Yup. That thudding was you. You shouldn't have taken your pulse. Now you can't stop thinking about it. And thinking about it is making it beat faster. Or is it your imagination?

Thud-thud. Thud-thud. Thud-thud. Twelve seconds.

But there's nothing you can do about that now except wait for it to end. Which it will. Presently. Confronted with this fact yet again, you attempt to organize your final thoughts. You close your eyes, breathe deep, and attempt to recall the sensation of pressing your face into sheets pulled straight from the dryer. The warm caress of the cotton much more pleasant than the cool caress of the breeze from the pit. The artificial floral tingle of the fabric softener in your nostrils much more... well actually the loamy smell of the cave is pretty pleasant.

You try to recall the feeling of sitting on a hilltop with your childhood sweetheart watching the sun go down. Then watching the horizon gradually darken over the next couple of hours. Neither of you wanting to go home. Neither of you wanting to let go.

But the time for that is over.

It's almost upon you now. You still haven't opened your eyes but you know that it's there. The surface makes a noise like static... or bacon frying. Something like that. You have only seconds. You lift your chin and wait.

Oh God! What the Hell were you thinking! You jerk your eyes open and attempt to make a mad dash for the pit! The surface is only feet from your head, tinged with an oily sheen. You crouch, hoping for a few milliseconds more on your trip to the edge. You will dive off over the edge if only you can get there--- Puddle. You go sprawling in the wet dirt 20 feet from the edge. You dig and claw your way toward the pit. But it's no use. The cloud is moving towards you faster than you are moving towards the pit. There's nothing to do but roll over and--- die screaming.

The cloud envelopes you embracing you with a searing... numbness? You feel nothing. Quite literally nothing. Not even the cavity that had been bothering you. Of course you can't see anything either. Or taste. Or hear. Your inner ear however does seem to be working because you can feel yourself being rocketed away from your body at an astounding rate. Well maybe it wasn't your inner ear, but you can definitely feel it. Just like you can feel yourself slowing. An eternity later you will stop. You decide to count sheep. You get to 4,568,237,654,689,134,121,132,391,713,529,653 before you get bored. At some point you forgot what the next -illion was called and just started making them up. By this point you don't even remember which words were real anymore. You don't even really recall what sheep looked like.

You think they were black, cloud-like things. but a lot of stuff seems like it was black, cloud-like things these days. Except for some things. Like fire. You remember fire. That was the big orange tufty things coming from the grey-ish things with black-ish splotches.

An eternity later you notice you seem to be heading back. Or at least you seem to be heading somewhere. You think that there was a back at some point. That seems right. There was once a before... wasn't there? Will there be an after? A next? Will there be anything?

Yes there will. In fact, just one more eternity later, there it is. You can see something. It's a.... It's- It's a blur. As you squint it starts to resolve itself into a coherent image. You know this image. This is a-

Click here if it's a doctor.

Click here if it's a gate.

Click here if it's a tire iron.

Click here if it's a rock.

The Skin You're In (by Helena Handbasket)

You quickly stammer your wish to not do the death dance all over those glittering facets rushing toward you and the djinn.

"Oh, that? Really? Well, it's your funeral... I'm kidding! Wow, the look on your face..."

With a staggering crack in perception, you feel the wind slow and then tumble chaotically about your face. The sweat there cools quickly, though you can still feel the damp tightness in your clothes where they're strung through folds and corners of your flesh. Your eyes aren't closed, are they? It's become very hard to focus on anything other than the tumbling sensation, which goes on much longer than you had thought remained in your fall. With a sudden burst of warmth and then cool freshness, like someone stuffed a Mentos fire extinguisher in your mouth, everything becomes still.

"Well, va va voom, if I don't say so myself! Which of course I just did, now didn't I?"

You open your eyes, which it seems you had scrunched shut in the fray. All that falling really did a number on you, so much that you feel like you're still floating. Timtam floating next to you isn't helping much either. He's snickering a bit, bringing back all your memories. Yeah, you were going to think "high school memories," but let's face it, folks have been tsk-tsk-ing or giggling about you most of your life. You realize that you probably let loose in the terror of your plummet, and his reaction is probably due to your stinking nether-regions. You instinctively reach around your hips to clutch at your rear, but find nothing. Not a clean pair of shorts, mind you, but nothing at all. Your hands flop through empty air and you panic, sure that you've disintegrated.

This sets Timtam into a fit of laughter, and he rolls in the air, over and over, gasping and yelping. "No, no, please, stop! Here, here, look! Look!"

With a flamboyant puff of vaporizing rose petals, he pulls a full-length mirror from the air and holds it in front of you. Staring blankly in the glass is a gorgeous woman, prettier than any you've seen in real life. It dawns on you after some clumsy glances over your shoulders, that this bombshell must be you. A moment of shock later, you see this stacked woman begin to turn red and sweaty as she spits and yells at Timtam. He begins giggling again, making the mirror shake. The jiggling, panting, red-faced image suddenly strikes at the core of your self-image, quieting you as your new identity hardens in your consciousness. You grab your breasts, and your eyes get big.

"Hey, hey, hey! Cut that out! Those are my payment, you beautiful lech! I'm gonna lick the salt off of 'em!" With this, Timtam begins cackling and chasing you in circles by tumbling through the air. You scramble in a loop, certain you do not want to be manhandled by this chortling desert-demon. He finally stops and his face gets very serious.

"Now listen, I'm not kidding. I saved your life there, for not even a single salt crystal, and I do expect payment. You're to be my companion at Djinnfest. It'll be SO refeshing to have a bumbling newbie there, and we'll have so much fun together! You've never seen a party like this! And I'll take very good care of you and your new skins." The long mirror disappears with a no-nonsense ting. "So yes, come along, let's go. You owe me, remember, so no bargaining." With this he begins (bedjinns?) to herd you onto the softly crunching path leading through the crystal crags.

Your now-foxy head is spinning, so you allow yourself to be led for the moment. Similarly beautiful women appear to the sides of the path intermittently, using what look like hellspawn lawnmowers to shred new paths through the crystal monoliths, creating the powder you feel underfoot. They wave with sultry smiles, pausing as you walk past. You find yourself staring open-mouthed at their barely-clad frames, at their curves undulating under what appears to be sprayed on, technicolor fur. You're thankful your man bits aren't around to betray you, until you realize your MAN BITS AREN'T AROUND TO BETRAY YOU. Your heart starts racing again, and you can feel those glorious breasts begin to heave, your plump and arching lips dry out, and bile rise, burning, into your closing throat.

"Aren't they lovely?" Timtam interrupts your looming panic attack by gently taking your hand. "You'd never guess they were made of rotting flesh before we hired them and did a classic retrofit. And those mowers are a cute touch. Darnadian told us he'd figure out a clever way to deal with the whole mountain-devouring dentata issue..."

Timtam rambles on in a soothing voice, perhaps aware of your pulsating emotional frenzy. Just as you notice that the suede-like dress you wear has pattern reminiscent of stretchmarks you loathed in your mirror back home, and the "F" from the "Fatty McButterpants" tattoo from that one frat party betrayal is just above the hem of the skirt, Timtam dashes ahead while hollering greetings at a couple ambling along an intersecting path. The couple's tentacles intertwine, oozing an oily, dripping fluid, while they catch up on all things djinny.

Your eye catches a glint to your left. One of the dentata lawnmower girls is beckoning you, glancing sideways at Timtam nervously. She is obscured in shadow between two white cliffs, but you can just make out her swirling coat rustling in the gentle breeze. You feel the tug of your phantom organs when she shifts her weight and jiggles, and your still-present brain knows she could hold the key to escape or a toothy death. But you sure can't smell any rot from her at this distance.

Whatever you decide, you better make it quick. Creatures of all sorts and sizes are converging on the spot from all the paths you can see, and Timtam is sure to realize your absence any moment.

If you decide to follow the girl's fuzzy rump into the shadows, click here.

If this lady thing ain't so bad, and you wouldn't mind being wined and dined and taking these parts for a spin, click here.

If you run madly into the crystalline distance, stripping off your manskin dress in horror, click here.

Rectal Failure (by SuperBall)

You lose the will to brush off the dirt and worm spit from your shoulders and lie defeated instead of standing tall. How did it come to this? Was there something that you could have done to avoid being sucked into the cave by the land-sphincter or ambushed by worm anuses? Has you entire life just been a series of rectal failures? Maybe if you had gotten up the nerve to ask Myrtle Melroy to Hogwarsh Middle Summer Festival -or maybe if you had not given up on playing the electric violin when your neck fat started getting in the way – then perhaps all would be different.

But a person who has given up can't hold on to regrets. You let parts of your life slip away in increasingly larger steps until you're just a ball of flesh that sleeps and wakes indiscriminately. Your position gradually changes to upright against the worm wall. No, you haven't regained your gumption; the worms have just been slowly reeling you in along their salivary strands. At least your body will be put to good use, become fuel for worm brood for decades to come. Your last thoughts are of luminous, secret, whispering eyes stalking you in the dark – yeah, that would be worm anuses caressing you as you begin your descent into the great unknown.

THE END

Glaxball Stallcrucher (by Ethan)

You jumped out, because of something your gut told you. The orangutan-lizard-aliens deftly net you with a net that feels like it's made of seaweed or raw bacon. You can't help but feel a little disappointed in your gut; he forced you to buy bigger pants last week, and repays you with this. You give him a few pinches of disgust before blacking out from a blue gas the bug-iguana-hunters release from orifices at the tips of each of their fingers. You dream about a movie you once saw, a game you once played, and that Thanksgiving dinner at Aunt Maggies where you choked on a drumstick.

You awaken, eyes still closed. You feel your jammies surrounding your skin, and a nice, crisp sheet surrounding that, with a super-sick quilt acting as the tortilla to your bed burrito. 'Aha!' you think, 'this was totally a nightmare, how could it not have been, weird alien trolls are not real things, and caves don't work like that, and my gut isn't that big in real life. I will open my eyes and see my bookshelf filled with like twenty different dorky books about Middle Earth, and make some Eggos, and chat about this with my significant other.' You open your eyes and realize that you had only dreamed the pajamas and the bed and other stuff, because you are in fact tied up to a bug-alien folding chair with that same slippery bug-alien rope. Also you are in fact significantly paunchy, and couldn't get through The Hobbit. Also you are in a cave, although whether or not it is The Cave With the Squeezy Mouth is up in the air. Also someone/thing is walking/slinking/locomoting closer, but you can't really see them/it because they are around a corner.

They get around that corner, and you are face-to-face with some of those nutballs that must have tied you up.

“Hey,” you shout, trying to act tough. “What's the deal here, bug-aliens, what's the big idea with regards to chasing and capturing innocent woods-wanderers?”

“We aren't bugs or aliens, tubby,” says one of the not-bug-aliens in a voice that could be described as a 'baritone pigsnort'. “We are hunters, and you already knew that.”

“Well, I thought you were human hunters, like guns-n-camoflauge, stuffed deer head over the mantle kinds of guys. Which is totally not the case,” you say.

“Not that kind of hunter, tubby,” says one of the hunters. “We aren't hunting for meat...” At this point, the non-speaking hunter whispers something into the other's ear, and they laugh, and jab eachother with their elbows, and you swear to god you can see one of them mouthing (mandibling?) the words 'we will totally eat him later, he looks plump and juicy', but then you aren't sure. “No, we aren't hunting for meat. We're hunting for an All-Universe caliber stallcruncher to play on our Glaxball team in this century's upcomign Glaxball tournament. You totally fit the bill.”

“Glaxball? Stallcrucher?” you query. “How can I be All-Universe caliber in a game I've never heard of.”

“Um... you look like a natural?” says hunter number one, while hunter number two shakes some salt on you, and licks your ear, and says “tastes like a natural, too, yukyukyuk.”

“So will you take on the challenge and fulfill your destiny, Tubby the Great? If so, step on into our Galactic Glaxball portal and be transported to the Dimension of Glory!” You think that the Galactic Glaxball portal looks a lot like a wood-fired oven. Hunter number two unties you (after shaking a little of what smells like barbecue sauce into your hair).

“Well, what are you waiting for?” says number one, perhaps a little too eagerly.

If you decide to zoom through the Galactic Glaxball portal, click here!

If you decide to kick hunters one and two into the portal that's totally an oven, click here!

If you decide to reason with them peacefully, click here!

Dead Weight (by Bunny)

Thundering claustrophobia sinks in.
You can't go into the cave! What if there are pale, naked mole people waiting for you? They might try and touch you! And you sure as hell don't have the upper body strength to climb out of here. Plus, the shadow is creeping down to get you, and meeting with it on the side of a cliff doesn't come close to making your bucket list. In fact, you've got a sinking feeling it might kill your chances of finishing that list. Though let's be honest, the only buckets on your list are KFC's popcorn chicken bucket and Popeye's 8-piece mixed bucket.
And so, you decide the best thing to do is use your gut to your advantage and jump. You run a few feet into the cavern, turn around, and take a running leap into the void. As you begin to dive, a shadow falls upon you!

"Ack! Give a guy some warning before you jump out of a cliff like that next time! I almost piggy-backed your head with my ass, buddy," says the man now floating next to you.

Your free-falling partner is a large, round fellow with skin the color and texture of a hot pink bouncy ball. He is completely hairless on his head and his chest, which glistens in the sunlight. On top of his head sits a neon blue miter at least half as tall as him. The man's loose, golden pants are flapping in the wind much like the skin of your double-chins. His hat shouldn't be able to stay in place with all the falling and wind, but, well, there it is.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer," he says. "The name's Timtam, by the way."
He waits for you to speak your name, but you are too busy gasping for air. Your heart is pounding even harder than usual. If only you were in better shape, maybe this wouldn't be so stressful. But, you just had to eat Chipotle twice a week. With chips! And a large coke! That wasn't diet! You feel all those extra burritos conspiring with gravity to make you fall faster.
"That's all right. We're all entitled to our secrets. So. Very. Entitled. What are you doing in these parts? Heading to Djinnfest?"
You shrug to express your confusion.

"I know, I know. It seems like every Djinni and their lamps are going to Djinnfest these days. Every year, I tell myself it will be the last year, but I end up going anyway. Hey, do you think could you spare me some salt? I'm famished."

You check your pockets, but don't find any salt. You are surprised, since you usually have a few extra packets left over from an In-n-Out adventure. They just never seem to make their fries salty enough for you.

"Well, damn. What kind of Djinn worth his salt doesn't carry any extra salt for emergencies?"

You explain that you aren't a Djinn, you've never heard of Djinnfest, and that you're really sorry, usually you have some extra salt.

"Ah, well, that explains a lot. This falling would be a bit of a problem for you then, wouldn't it?"

You look below you to find the ground a whole lot closer than it was when you decided to jump. The white "clouds" below glint under the sunlight. In reality, they are huge white crystals, like scraggly teeth jutting out of the earth. And they are hungry for a poor soul's blood and flesh to be spattered all over their shiny sides.

"Hokay, tell you what, my friend," the Djinn says, "I'll save you with some magic, but it'll cost you. Normally, I'd just ask for some salt, but, well.. you know. We can work something out. So, make a wish! You've got about five... four..."

If you:

Wish you hadn't jumped out of that cave, click here

Wish to survive your stupid, impulsive decision that you still totally stand by, click here

Screw wishes! You don't owe favors to anybody! (Kat has dibs).

Small Steps (by Had)

The lights twinkle on the wall far ahead of you, like stars in the blackness, and you feel drawn to them—their peacefulness calls to you as a haven from the hunters, so you step towards the edge. The cliff falls away to your left into a set of stairs, shabbily carved into the rock face but smoothed by use over time. You've already gone down the rabbit-hole, so you figure "why not?" and step ahead down the narrow staircase. It does not occur to you—yet—who carved the staircase, or by whose use it has become so worn over time...

The long climb down has worn on your weight-strained ankles and your chubby fingers are cramping from grasping the cold stairs in some of the more vertical parts, but your weariness does not dull your sense of urgency and the feeling of adrenaline coursing through every vessel in your body. Shaking, from both fear and exertion, you finally step off of the staircase and see at last the white caps of rapids on the cave's river that is flowing before you. A small boat is moored upstream a ways and you stumble towards it, praying you will find a bridge or some land-based alternative. You've always hated boats. And caves for that matter.

Unfortunately it seems the small row-boat is the only option you have—that or a steep climb back up the cliff and a squeeze out that land-sphincter at the base of the tree that sucked you in here in the first place. You hate climbing steep cliffs more than you hate boats, so the obvious choice is before you: you untie the boat and push off from the land praying you've given it enough of a shove to allow you to cross to the other side of the river, back to the safe haven of solid ground.

As the current takes the boat, you sit, unsteadily, and grasp for the oar that is handily waiting at the bottom of the craft. Your pitiful shove did not do much for your transverse progress across the river, so the presence of the oar is lucky. Your tired arms feel more like flippers than anything else, and your tired hands have difficulty grasping the oar, but you somehow manage to paddle across the gentle current and throw yourself out of the boat onto the other shore. Without a place to dock and tie the boat, it rolls away with the current into the depths of the cavern and your only choice now is to head closer to those twinkly lights that adorn the far wall. Which isn't such a bad option, given that your curiosity has been piqued... What are they anyway?

You eventually step close enough to the wall that your nose is nearly touching it—you can smell the warm, sticky, cinnamon stronger now. It's not the enjoyable, Cinnabon scent, that you have come to appreciate on those infrequent... admit it, more frequent than they ought to be... occasions that you "indulge." No, it's a stifling and oppressive odor, despite the coolness of the rock that surrounds you. The lights twinkle in front of you, those closest steadily emanating a blue-white light like stars in the night sky. You reach out to touch them, to feel if you're really staring at a wall or into space studded with far away stars—

And you pull your hand away, disgusted and horrified. Those pretty lights are the glittering anuses of glow worms, with their little beaded strings of saliva hanging in wait to catch whatever unfortunate insects, like you, that are attracted to their sick luminescence. You try to shake the worm-goo off of your outstretched hand and instead end up brushing your entire arm across the wall of spit-strands and sparkly, wormy back-sides. Shocked and now coated with worm-spit you start to gag and wretch and fall against the worm-infested wall, emptying your stomach contents as you feel the writhing bodies of offended worms against the side of your face. You're disoriented, confused, and mostly angry with yourself that you didn't remember that Cave episode of that David Attenborough show you loved... You fall to the floor in the pile of your own vomit, a hopeless, pitiful wretch, and begin to cry.

But you can't stay there forever.

Should you rally, pick yourself up, and continue on your journey?

Or will you succumb to inconsolable depression and lay on the cold, cavernous floor until someone finds you or death takes you?

Help Me Tell A Twisted Tale

Let's get straight to business. You're a storyteller, and I need your services to complete this project. Don't shake your head at me - I don't care about your level of experience. Perhaps I've encountered you during my travels, or maybe I've heard from such-and-such that your crafted tales are sharper than diamond-edged blades. Don't be making excuses, unless you'd like to turn those into a story.

This twisted tale will take place in Choose Your Own Adventure format (Remember the books where you read to a certain point, make a decision, and turn to the corresponding page?). In this blog format, you'll be able to make a decision at the end of each post by clicking a link for the next post.

The next post is where you come in, since you'll be creating it. If you don't see an active link for that decision, that means that decision is up for grabs. You can email me at robertoegan@gmail.com if you want dibs on a decision.

Write a post that corresponds to that decision, and email it to me at robertoegan@gmail.com.

You may have your post end in more decisions that you've invented (more decisions mean more posts - the story keeps growing, get it?) I'll publish the post under your name (or any name that you so choose). You can also have your post be the end of a possible story (i.e. a grisly, embarrassing death).

Your posts don't need to be long or fancy. They just need to be you, so let's get started.

And the first part of the story is up, begin your adventure here