Arising from the desire to create an analogue alternative to the online games, competitions and celebrity takeovers taking place on twitter as part of Southbank Centre’s Litweeter Festival, the “Tweetwriter” was accordingly created.
The Tweetwriter, to the rough and untrained eye, could easily have been mistaken for an ordinary domestic typewriter, but it differed in three key and important ways:
1.) It was blue and had birds
2.) It had a twitter themed name
3.) It could only be typed on using 140 characters
The Tweetwriter perched proudly at a number of London Literature Festival’s events, and members of the public were invited to continue the story of the “Tweetwriter Tales”, using no more than 140 characters.
Below are some of the stories the Tweetriter spun. Whilst reading the tales, it is interesting to consider how the writers, strangers to each other, are talking through their development of the plot, sometimes drawing out subtleties in passages the original author may have been oblivious to, and sometimes rejecting the predictable and logical to revolutionise, rather than evolve the story.
The Tweetwriter Tales pt.3
A large proportion of the men were struggling red faced up the slight incline, sweat pouring from their deeply wrinkled brows.
It was hard to believe they were still only 14.
“Hello hello how are you my name is John”
“And the boy?” mumbled George, one of the less eloquent adolescents, in a knackered tone.
But, why is Geroge so tired? We have to understand this mystery! Maybe he has been transformed by a witch into a big frog. And have you ever felt like a frog? It’s very tiring…
Try not to be tired John; ask Barbara Kingsolver what the next twist in the plot should be when she has finished her book signing.
But the twist has not yet arrived and the plot is still to thicken. Agreed,, being a frog can be tiring, but working in Egypt as a 14 year old boy for 16 hours a day can turn you into an old man in less than 3 weeks. For George and the rest of the boys, working on the pyramids is the only life they have known.
For when one of the worlds greatest wonders is destroyed by meteor showers and the tourism trade is almost non existent, the only option is to rebuild the nations pride using any means necessary
The Tweetwriter Tales pt.4
The cat leapt from the top of the kitchen top onto the chequered lino floor. A trail of blood red footprints were left behind. Feathers stuck gruesomely around its mouth. A slow grin lingered.
The carcass that remained was not a pigeon however, not even a sparrow or a crow, but something altogether more gruesome…
A mix of the three
One beady eye still open, the wing stuggled its last.
The pigeonsparrowcrow was no more. And kitty was looking for a new adventure..
She turned around dropping the animal and fled into the night
It escaped and went to its nest. He couldn’t see properly with his beady one eye so the poor birds broken wing accidentally broke with the gushing wind, and suddenly fell down towards the busy dusty road.
Before he ran passed clutching her hand the young girl screaming as he pulled her down the road. The man picked up the injured bird and passed it to the screaming girl in a bid to silence her.
But she would not shut up, so he gave her a big slap. However she cried louder. At this he realised she would not be silenced and apologised. She beamed up at him…
How very strange to have the devil beaming right at you. You see, she likes to keep her friends close but her enemies closer. He is her enemy. But she wants something he has,
“Nothing you say that I think is worth listening to, you get me? Yesterday I was disappointed that we were in the presence of such ridiculous people. Did you know that I was lost of things to say with them? Anyways I he doesn’t forget…”
Whilst the two continued to converse, out of the nearby tower block came a knight in shinning armour on his trusty steed. He brandished his cardboard sword and charged towards the two of them.
She realised she was in love with him. The man of her dreams. He was cute like no other.
So they shared cherry buns iced with pink icing, and a flock of tiny birds pecked crumbs and lifted her aloft into the cloudless night sky.
Meantime however, with the knight’s back turned, a dragon crept onto the royal estate in a fiery fury, looking to cause some trouble.
He saw the lovely pink icing and he decided to breath fire on it. He opened his mouth but all he could do was stare. He wondered if breathing flames onto such delicious icing would be a sing, so he ate the icing instead. “Mmmm yum” he said. I could just do with a cigarette after that. He took out a cigarette and tried to light it with the flames of his breath but he couldn’t light it. He just couldn’t get the flames to appear at all. I suppose fire and icing just don’t mix.
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