In Chaotic Prose, everybody writes the stories. Nobody knows (not even me) who writes which parts. It's all completely anonymous.
There are a few ground rules that I want everybody to observe:
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Through the ages, it occupied space in its container, an ancient, plain wooden chest. The last person to know about it had died millennia ago. No scroll or document or carving or painting anywhere in the world made reference to it.
The dried, dessicated apple once again saw the light of day when (quite by accident) its case was dug up by little Benny Goodfinger. Sunlight squirted into the box through tiny wormholes in the splintering wood. Benny spent quite some time looking over the wooden chest. He was fascinated and spent long, luscious moments fantasizing about what was in the box. He tried to pry it open. He shook it. He peered with his right eye into one of the larger worm holes. Realizing he would need more than his bare hands to open the box, he decided to take it home to his father's workshop.
He chose a pry bar and put all his weight on it. The lid groaned but did not give way immediately. However, a wisp of green mist escaped with a slight "pish" noise.
Benny's head snapped back as the acrid green mist blasted his senses. The inside of his nose burned, and his eyes began to water. A putrid, dry taste filled his mouth. He felt dizzy and nauseous. At the same time his heart raced, his gut cramped, and his bowels loosened. A damp sweat broke out all over his body, and his knees were shaky and weak. A powerful terror enveloped his being.
Then, as quickly as the fit had befallen him, it lifted away, leaving him releaved but a little afraid. His fear deepened into terror as he realized that he had shit his pants. Benny had not had an accident in two years, since he was four. He dreaded what his mother would do when she found out. The beatings had been a daily ritual until he had learned to go to the toilet. Not that the punishments had stopped completely after that. Oh no. Folks like Judith Goodfinger never had any trouble finding a reason to beat their kids senseless when the mood struck them.
Benny quickly stepped out of his drawers and took off the offending underwear. He frantically looked around the workshop for a place to hide his shame. He was still shaking and hot tears brimmed over his cheeks. His nervousness almost overwhelmed him. He hiccupped in between heavy gasps of breath. His eyes roamed over boxes, tools, dirty rags, and oily cans. Where could he put the underpants?
Just then he noticed that the box was glowing and producing a strange humming noise. He shuffled over to the box, naked from the waist down. Clumps of shit fell from the underwear dangling from his hand to the concrete floor, but he didn't notice. A new pain began to build in his head, more intense than any pain he had ever known in his short life. Benny fell to the floor. He moaned, then screamed. He scratched his eyes out trying to get to the pain. By the time his mother stormed into the workshop, having decided that Benny's ass was soon to be the proud recipient of a Judith Belt Special, Benny was already dead.
"Benny!" she bellowed toward where Benny lay. "Benny?" she said softer as she saw his feet. The smell hit her just then, a whiff of